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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

a 

DERELICTS 

IDOLS 

A  STUDY  IN  SHADOWS 

THE  WHITE  DOVE 

THE  USURPER 

THE  DEMAGOGUE  AND  LADY  PHAYRE 

AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA 

WHERE  LOVE  IS 

THE  MORALS  OF  MARCUS  ORDEYNE 

THE   BELOVED  VAGABOND 

SIMON  THE  JESTER 

THE  GLORY  OF  CLEMENTINA  WING 

THE  JOYOUS  ADVENTURES  OF 

ARISTIDE  PUJOL 
STELLA  MARIS 
THE  FORTUNATE  YOUTH 
JAFFERY 
FAR-AWAY  STORIES 

THE   BODLEY   HEAD 


THE 

WONDERFUL  YEAR 


WILLIAM   J.    LOCKE 


LONDON  :  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
NEW  YORK  :  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY.  MCMXVI 


PRUrraD  AT  THE  COMPLETE  PKBSS 

WEST     NORWOOD 

LQNDOM 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 


CHAPTER  I 

"  There  is  a  letter  for  you,  monsieur,"  said  the  con- 
cierge of  the  Hotel  du  Soleil  et  de  I'Ecosse. 

He  was  a  shabby  concierge  sharing  in  the  tarnish  of 
the  shabby  hotel  which  (for  the  information  of  those 
fortunate  ones  who  only  know  of  the  Ritz,  and  the 
Meurice  and  other  such-Hke  palaces)  is  situated  in  the 
unaristocratic  neighbourhood  of  the  HaUes  Centrales. 

"  As  it  bears  the  Paris  postmark,  it  must  be  the  one 
which  monsieur  was  expecting,"  said  he,  detaching  it 
from  the  chp  on  the  keyboard. 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,"  said  Martin  Overshaw. 
"  I  recognize  the  handwriting." 

The  young  Englishman  sat  on  the  worn  cane  seat  in 
the  little  vestibule  and  read  his  letter.     It  ran  : 

Dear  Martin, — I've  been  away.  Otherwise  I 
should  have  answered  your  note  sooner.  I'm 
delighted  you're  in  this  God-forsaken  city,  but  what 
brought  you  here  in  August,  Heaven  only  knows. 
We  must  meet  at  once.  I  can't  ack  you  to  my 
abode,  because  I've  only  one  room,  one  chair,  and  a 
bed,  and  you  would  be  shocked  to  sit  on  the  chair 
while  I  sat  on  the  bed,  or  to  sit  on  the  bed  while  I 
sat  on  the  chair.  And  I  couldn't  offer  you  anything 
but  a  cigarette  {caporal,  a  quatre  sous  le  paquet)  and 
the  fag-end  of  a  bottle  of  grenadine  syrup  and  water. 
So  let  us  dine  together  at  the  place  where  I  take 


2  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

such  meals  as  I  can  afford,  Au  Petit  Cornichon,  or, 
as  the  snob  of  a  proprietor  yearns  to  call  it,  the 
"  Restaurant  Dufour."  It's  a  beast  of  a  hole  in  the 
Rue  Baret  off  the  Rue  Bonaparte  ;  but  I  don't 
think  either  of  us  could  run  to  the  Cafe  de  Paris  or 
Paillard's  and  we'll  have  it  all  to  ourselves.  Meet 
me  there  at  seven. 

Yours  sincerely, 

CoRiNNA  Hastings. 

Martin  Overshaw  rose  and  addressed  the  concierge. 

"  Where  is  the  Rue  Bonaparte  ?  " 

The  concierge  informed  him. 

"  I  am  going  to  dine  \^'ith  a  lady  at  a  restaurant 
called  the  Petit  Cornichon.  Do  you  think  I  had  better 
wear  evening  dress  ?  " 

The  concierge  was  perplexed.  The  majority  of  the 
British  frequenters  of  the  hotel,  when  they  did  not 
dine  in  gangs  at  the  table  d'hote,  went  out  to  dinner  in 
flannels  or  knickerbockers,  and  wore  cloth  caps,  and 
looked  upon  the  language  of  the  country  as  an  incom- 
prehensible joke.  But  here  was  a  young  Englishman 
of  a  puzzling  type  who  spoke  perfect  French  with  a 
strange  purity  of  accent,  in  spite  of  his  abysmal 
ignorance  of  Paris,  and  talked  about  dressing  for 
dinner. 

"  I  will  ask  Monsieur  Bocardon,"  said  he. 

Monsieur  Bocardon,  the  manager,  a  fat,  greasy 
Proven9al,  who  sat  over  a  ledger  in  the  cramped 
bureau,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  threw  out  his 
hands. 

"  Evening  dress  in  a  Httle  restaurant  of  the  Quartier. 
Mais  non !  They  would  look  at  you  through  the 
windows.  There  would  be  a  crowd.  It  would  be  an 
affair  of  the  police." 

Martin  Overshaw  smiled.  "  Merci,  monsieur,"  said 
he.  "  But  as  you  m.ay  have  already  guessed,  I  am 
new  to  Paris  and  Paris  ways." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  3 

"  That  doesn't  matter,"  replied  Monsieur  Bocardon 
graciously.  "  Paris  isn't  France.  We  of  the  south — 
I  am  from  Nimes — care  that  for  Paris  " — he  snapped 
his  fingers.     "  Monsieur  knows  the  Midi  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  first  visit  to  France,"  said  Martin. 

"  Mais  conmient  done  ?  You  speak  French  like  a 
Frenchman." 

"My  mother  was  a  Swiss,"  replied  Martin  i  1- 
genuously.  "  And  I  hved  all  my  boyhood  in  Switzer- 
land— in  the  Canton  de  Vaud.  French  is  my  mother 
tongue,  and  I  have  been  teaching  it  in  England  ever 
since." 

"  Aha  !  monsieur  is  prof esseur  ?  "  Monsieur  Bocardon 
asked  politely. 

"  Yes,  prof  esseur ,"  said  Martin,  conscious  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  of  the  absurd  dignity  of  the  French 
title.  It  appealed  to  a  latent  sense  of  humour,  and  he 
smiled  wryly.  Yes.  He  was  a  professor — had  been 
for  the  last  ten  years,  at  Margett's  Universal  College, 
Hickney  Heath  ;  a  professor  engaged  in  cramming  large 
classes  of  tradesmen's  children,  both  youths  and 
maidens,  with  such  tricksters'  command  of  French 
grammar  and  vocabulary  as  would  enable  them  to 
obtain  high  marks  in  the  stereotyped  examinations  for 
humble  positions  in  the  public  and  semi-pubHc  services. 
He  had  reduced  the  necessary  instruction  to  an  exact 
science.  He  had  carried  hundreds  of  pupils  through 
their  examinations  with  flaying  colours  ;  but  he  had 
never  taught  a  single  human  being  to  speak  thirty 
consecutive  coherent  words  of  French  or  to  read  and 
enjoy  a  French  book.  When  he  was  very  young  and 
foolish  he  had  tried  to  teach  them  the  French  speech 
as  a  Hving,  organic  mode  of  communication  between 
human  beings,  ^\ith  the  result  that  his  pupils,  soul- 
strung  for  examinations,  had  revolted,  and  the  great 
C3^rus  Margett,  founder  of  the  colossal  and  horrible 
Strasburg  goose  factory  known  as  Margett's  Universal 
College,  threatened  to  sack  him  if  he  persisted  in  such 


4  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

damnable  and  unprofitable  imbecility.  So,  being  poor 
and  unenterprising  and  having  no  reason  to  care 
whether  a  Mr.  James  Bagshawe  or  a  Miss  Susan 
Tulliver  profited  for  more  than  the  examination 
moment  by  his  teaching,  he  had  taught  the  dry 
examination-bones  of  the  French  language  for  ten 
years.  And — "Monsieur  est  professeur?"  from  Mon- 
sieur Bocardon  ! 

Then,  as  he  turned  away  and  began  to  mount  the 
dingy  stairs  that  led  to  his  bedroom,  it  struck  him 
that  he  was  now  only  a  professor  in  pariibus.  He  was 
no  longer  a  member  of  the  professorial  staff  of  Margett's 
Universal  College.  The  vast,  original  Margett  had 
retired  with  fortune,  liver,  and  head  deservedly  swollen, 
to  county  magnateship,  leaving,  for  pecuniary  con- 
siderations, the  tremendous  educational  institution  to 
a  young  successor,  who,  having  adopted  as  his  watch- 
word the  comforting  shibboleth  "  efiiciency,"  had 
dismissed  all  those  professors  who  did  not  attain  his 
standard  of  shckness.  Martin  Overshaw  was  not 
slick.  The  young  apostle  of  efficiency  had  dismissed 
Martin  Overshaw  at  a  month's  notice,  after  ten  years' 
service.  It  was  as  though  a  practised  gorgeur  or 
hand-gorger  of  geese  had  been  judged  obsolescent  and 
made  to  give  place  to  one  who  gorged  them  by  Hertzian 
rays.  The  new  Olympian  had  flashed  a  glance,  a 
couple  of  hghtning  questions  at  Martin,  and  that  was 
the  end. 

In  truth,  Martin  Overshaw  did  not  emanate  efficiency 
Uke  the  eagle-faced  men  in  the  illustrated  advertise- 
ments who  undertake  to  teach  you  how  to  become  a 
millionaire  in  a  fortnight.  He  was  of  mild  and  modest 
demeanour ;  of  somewhat  shy  and  self-depreciatory 
attitude  ;  a  negligible  personality  in  any  assemblage 
of  human  beings  ;  a  man  (according  to  the  blasphemous 
saying)  of  no  account.  Of  medium  height,  thin,  black- 
haired,  of  sallow  complexion,  he  regarded  the  world 
unspeculatively   out    of    clear    grey   eyes,    that    had 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  5 

grown  rather  tired.  As  he  brushed  his  hair  before  the 
long  strip  of  wardrobe  mirror,  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  criticize  his  reflected  image.  He  made  no  claims 
to  impeccabiUty  of  costume.  His  Hnen  and  person 
were  scrupulously  clean  ;  his  sober  suit  comparatively 
new.  But  his  appearance,  though  he  knew  it  not, 
suffered  from  a  masculine  dowdiness,  indefinable  yet 
obvious.  His  ill-tied  cravat  had  an  inveterate  quarrel 
with  his  ill-chosen  collar  and  left  the  collar-stud 
exposed,  and  innocent  of  sumptuary  crime  he  allowed 
his  socks  to  ruck  over  his  ankles.  .  .  .  Once  he  had 
grown  a  full  black  beard,  full  in  the  barber's  sense, 
but  dejectedly  straggling  to  the  commonplace  eye  of 
a  landlady's  daughter  who  had  goaded  him  into  a 
tepid  flirtation.  To  please  the  nymph,  long  since 
married  to  a  virtuous  plumber  whom  Martin  himself 
had  called  in  to  make  his  bath  a  going  concern,  he  had 
divested  himself  of  the  offending  excrement,  and 
contented  himself  thenceforward  with  a  poor  little 
undistinguished  moustache.  A  very  ordinary,  unar- 
resting young  man  was  Martin  Overshaw.  Yet  in  his 
simple,  apologetic  way — exempli  gratia,  when  he  smiled 
with  deferential  confidence  on  the  shabby  concierge 
and  the  greasy  Monsieur  Bocardon — he  carried  with 
him  an  air  of  good  breeding,  a  disarming  sensitiveness 
of  manner  which  commanded  the  respect,  contemptuous 
though  it  might  have  sometimes  been,  of  coarser 
natures.  A  long,  thin,  straight  nose  with  delicate 
nostrils,  the  only  noticeable  feature  of  his  face,  may 
have  had  something  to  do  with  this  impression  of 
refinement.  Much  might  be  written  on  noses.  The 
Great  Master  of  Nosology,  Laurence  Sterne,  did  but 
broach  the  subject.  On  account,  perhaps,  of  a  long 
head  terminating  in  a  long  blunt  chin,  and  a  mild 
patience  of  expression,  he  bore  at  Margett's  Universal 
College  the  traditional  sobriquet  of  "  Cab-horse." 

The   cab-horse,   however,   was   now  turned   out   to 
grass — in   August   Paris.     He   had   been   there   three 


6  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

days,  and  his  head  swam  with  the  wonder  of  it.     As 
he   walked    along   the   indicated   route    to    the    Petit 
Cornichon  in   the  airless   dark,   he   felt   the   thrill   of 
freedom  and  of  romance.      Down  the   Boulevard  de 
Sebastopol   he   went,    past   the   Tour   Saint   Jacques, 
through   the    Place    du    Chatelet,    ove:    the   Pont    au 
Change  and  across  the  He  de  la  Cite  to  the  Boulevard 
Saint  Michel,  and  turned  to  the  right  along  the  Boule- 
vard Saint  Germain  until  he  came  to  the  Rue  Bonaparte 
and  his  destination.     It  was  the  sweltering  cool  of  the 
evening.     Paris  sat  out  of  doors,  at  cafes,  at  gateways 
in  shirt-sleeves  and  loosened  bodices,  at  shop  fronts,  at 
dusty  tables  before  humble  restaurants.     Pedestrians 
walked  languidly  in  quest  of  ultimate  seats.     In  the 
wide  thoroughfares  the  omnibuses  went  their  accus- 
tomed route  ;    but  motor-cabs  whizzed  unfrequent  for 
lack  of  custom — they  who  could  afford  to  ride  in  taxi- 
autos    on    the    rive  gauche  were   far   away  in  cooler 
regions — and  the  old  horses  of  crawhng  fiacres  hung 
stagnant  heads.     Only  the  stale  di-egs  of  Paris  remained 
in    the    Boul'    Mich.     Yet    it    was    Fairyland    to    the 
emancipated   professor   in  partihus  who  paused  here 
and  there  to  catch  the  odd  phrases  of  his  mother's 
tongue  which  struck  his  ears  with  delicious  unfami- 
harity.     Paris,  too,  that  close,  sultry  evening,  smeUed 
of  unutterable  things  ;   but  to  Martin  Overshaw  it  was 
the  aroma  of  a  Wonder  City. 

He  found  without  difficulty  the  Cafe-Restaurant 
Dufour,  whose  gilded  style  and  title  eclipsed  the  modest 
sign  of  the  Petit  Cornichon,  prudently  allowed  to 
remain  in  porcelain  letters  on  the  glass  of  door  and 
windows.  Under  the  aegis,  as  it  were,  of  the  poor 
"  httle  gherkin,"  and  independent  of  the  magnificent 
Dufour  establishment,  was  the  announcement  dis- 
played :  "  Dejeuners  i  fr.  50.  Diners  2  fr.  Vin 
compris."  The  ground  floor  v.^as  a  small  cafe,  newly 
decorated  with  fresco  panels  of  generously  unclad 
la  lies    di-opping    roses    on    goat-legged    gentlemen : 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  7 

symptoms  of  the  progressive  mind  of  the  ambitious 
Monsieur  Dufour.     Only  two  tables  were  occupied — 
by  ruddy-faced  provincials  engaged  over  coffee  and 
dominoes.     To  Martin,  standing  embarrassed,  came  a ' 
pallid  waiter. 

"  Monsieur  desire  ?  " 

"  Le  restaurant." 

"  C'est  en  haut,  monsieur.     Au  premier." 

He  pointed  to  a  meagre  staircase  on  the  left-hand 
side.  Martin  ascended  and  found  himself  alone  in  a 
ghostly  tabled  room.  From  a  doorway  emerged 
another  pallid  waiter,  who  also  addressed  him  with  the 
inquiry:  "Monsieur  desire?" — but  the  inquiry  v/as 
modulated  with  a  certain  subtle  inflexion  of  surprise 
and  curiosity. 

"  I  am  expecting  a  lady,"  said  Martin. 

"  Bien,  monsieur.     A  table  for  two  ?     Void." 

He  drew  back  an  inviting  chair. 

"  I  should  liJce  this  one  by  the  window,"  said  Martin. 
The  room  being  on  the  entresol,  the  ceiling  was  low 
and  the  place  reeked  with  reproachful  reminders  of 
long-forgotten  one-franc-fifty  and  two-franc  meals. 

"  I  am  sorry,  monsieur,"  replied  the  waiter,  "  but 
this  table  is  reserved  by  a  lady  who  takes  here  all  her 
repasts.  Monsieur  can  see  that  it  is  so  by  the  half- 
finished  bottle  of  mineral  water." 

He  held  up  the  bottle  of  Evian  in  token  of  his 
veracity.  Scrawled  in  pencil  across  the  label  ran  the 
inscription,  "  Mile.  Hastings." 

"  Mademoiselle  Hastings  !  "  cried  Martin.  "  Why, 
that  is  the  lady  I  am  expecting." 

The  waiter  smiled  copiously.  Monsieur  was  a  friend 
of  Miss  Hastings  ?  Then  it  was  a  different  matter. 
Mademoiselle  said  she  would  be  back  to-night,  and  that 
was  why  her  bottle  of  Evian  had  been  preserved  for 
her.  She  was  the  only  one  left  of  the  enormous 
clientele  of  the  restaurant.  It  was  a  restaurant  of 
students.     In  the  students'  season,  not  a  table  for  the 


8  '        THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

chance  comer.  All  engaged.  The  students  paid  so 
much  per  week  or  per  month  for  nourishment.  It 
really  was  a  pension,  enfin,  for  board  without  lodging. 
When  the  students  were  away  from  Paris  the  restaurant 
was  kept  open  at  a  loss  :  not  a  very  great  loss,  for  in 
Paris  one  knew  how  to  accommodate  oneself  to  circum- 
stance. Good  provincials  and  English  tourists  some- 
times wandered  in.  One  always  then  indicated  the 
decorations,  real  masterpieces  some  of  them.  .  .  .  Only 
a  day  or  two  ago  an  American  traveller  had  taken 
photographs.  If  monsieur  would  deign  to  look 
round.  .  .  . 

Martin  deigned.  Drawings  in  charcoal  and  crayon 
on  the  distempered  walls,  caricatures,  bold  nudes,  bars 
of  music,  bits  of  satiric  verse,  flowing  signatures,  bore 
evidence  of  the  passage  of  many  generations  of  students. 

"  It  amuses  them,"  said  the  waiter,  "  and  gives  the 
place  a  character." 

He  was  pointing  out  the  masterpieces  when  a  young 
voice  by  the  door  sang  out  : 

"  Hallo,  Martin  !  " 

Martin  turned  and  met  the  welcoming  eyes  of 
Corinna  Hastings,  fair-haired,  slender,  neatly  dressed 
in  blue  serge  coat  and  skirt,  and  a  cheap  little  hat  to 
which  a  long  pheasant's  feather  gave  a  touch  of 
bravado. 

"  You're  a  real  godsend,"  she  declared,  "  I  was 
thinking  of  throwing  myself  into  the  river,  only  there 
would  have  been  no  one  on  the  deserted  bridge  to  fish 
me  out  again.     I  am  the  last  creature  left  in  Paris." 

"  I  am  more  than  lucky  then  to  find  you,  Corinna," 
said  Martin,  "  for  you're  the  only  person  in  Paris 
that  I  know." 

"How  did  you  find  my  address  ?  " 

"  I  went  down  to  Wendlebury " 

"  Then  you  saw  them  all  ?  "  said  Corinna,  as  they 
took  their  seats  at  the  window  table.  "  Father  and 
mother  and  Bessie  and  Joan  and  Ada,  et  cetera,  et  cetera, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  9 

doAvn  to  the  new  baby.  The  new  baby  makes  ten  of 
us  alive — really  he's  the  fourteenth.  I  wonder  how 
many  more  there  are  going  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  think  there  would  be  any  more," 
replied  Martin  gravely. 

Corinna  burst  out  laughing. 

"  What  on  earth  can  you  know  about  it  ?  " 

The  satirical  challenge  brought  a  flush  to  Martin's 
sallow  cheek.  What  did  he  know,  in  fact,  of  the  very 
intimate  concerns  of  the  Reverend  Thomas  Hastings 
and  his  wife  ? 

"I'm  afraid  they  find  it  hard  to  make  both  ends 
meet  as  it  is,"  he  explained. 

"  Yet  I  suppose  they  all  flourish  as  usual — playing 
tennis  and  golf  and  selling  at  bazaars  and  quaiTelHng 
over  curates  ?  " 

"  They  all  seem  pretty  happy,"  said  Martin,  not 
overpleased  at  his  companion's  airy  treatment  of  her 
family.  He,  himself,  the  loneliest  of  men,  had  found 
grateful  warmth  among  the  noisy,  good-hearted  crew 
of  girls.  It  hurt  him  to  hear  them  contemptuously 
spoken  of. 

"  It  was  the  first  time  you  went  down  since " 

She  paused. 

"  Since  my  mother  died  ?  Yes.  She  died  early  in 
May,  you  know." 

"  It  must  be  a  terrible  loss  to  you,"  said  Corinna  in 
a  softened  voice. 

He  nodded  and  looked  out  of  window  at  the  houses 
opposite.  That  was  why  he  was  in  Paris.  For  the 
last  ten  years,  ever  since  his  father's  death  had  hurried 
him  away  from  Cambridge,  after  a  term  or  two,  into 
the  wide  world  of  struggle  for  a  Hving,  he  had  spent 
all  his  days  of  freedom  in  the  Httle  Kentish  town.  And 
these  days  were  few.  There  were  no  long  luxurious 
vacations  at  Margett's  Universal  College,  such  as  there 
are  at  ordinary  colleges  and  schools.  The  grind  went 
on  all  the  year  round,  and  the  staff  had  but  scanty 


10  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

holidays.  Such  as  they  were  he  passed  them  at  his 
mother's  tiny  villa.  His  father  had  given  up  the 
chaplaincy  in  Switzerland,  where  he  had  married  and 
where  Martin  had  been  born,  to  become  Vicar  of 
Wendlebury,  and  Mr.  Hastings  was  his  successor. 
Mrs.  Overshaw,  with  her  phlegmatic  temperament, 
had  taken  root  in  Wendlebury,  and  there  Martin 
had  visited  her,  and  there  he  had  been  received  into 
the  intimacy  of  the  Hastings  family,  and  there  she  had 
died  ;  and  now  that  the  little  villa  was  empty  and 
Martin  had  no  place  outside  London  to  lay  his  leisured 
head,  he  had  satisfied  the  dream  of  his  life  and  come 
to  Paris.  But  even  in  this  satisfaction  there  was  pain. 
What  was  Paris  compared  with  the  kind  touch  of  that 
vanished  hand  ?  He  sighed.  He  was  a  simple  soul  in 
spite  of  his  thirty  years. 

The  waiter  roused  him  from  his  sad  reflections  by 
bringing  the  soup  and  a  bottle  of  thin  red  wine. 
Conscious  of  food  and  drink  and  a  female  companion 
of  prepossessing  exterior,  Martin's  face  brightened. 

"  It's  so  jolly  of  them  in  Paris  to  tlirow  in  wine  like 
this, "said  he. 

"  I  only  hope  you  can  drink  the  stuff,"  remarked 
Corinna.     "  We  call  it  tord-boyaux." 

"  It's  a  rare  treat,"  said  Martin.  "  I  can't  afford 
wine  in  England ;  and  the  soup  is  delicious.  Somehow 
no  English  landlady  ever  thinks  of  making  it." 

"  England  is  a  beast  of  a  place,"  said  Corinna. 

"  Yet  in  your  letter  you  called  Paris  a  God-forsaken 
city." 

"  So  it  is  in  August.  The  schools  are  closed.  Not  a 
studio  is  open.  Every  single  student  has  cleared  out, 
and  theie's  nothing  in  the  world  to  do." 

"  I've  found  heaps  to  do,"  said  Martin. 

"  The  Pantheon  and  Notre  Dame  and  the  Folies 
Berg^re,"  said  Corinna.  "  There's  also  the  Eiffel 
Tower.  Imagine  a  three  years  art  student  finding  fun 
on  the  Eiffel  Tower  ?  " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  ii 

"  Then  why  haven't  you  gone  home  this  August  as 
usual  ?  "  asked  Martin. 

Corinna  knitted  her  brows.  "  That's  another  story," 
she  repHed  shortly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  imper- 
tinent," said  Martin. 

She  laughed.  "  Don't  be  silly — you  think  wallowing 
in  the  family  trough  is  the  height  of  bliss.  It  isn't. 
I  would  sooner  starve  than  go  back.  At  any  rate  I 
should  be  myself,  a  separate  entity,  an  individual. 
Oh,  that  being  merely  a  bit  of  clotted  family  !  How 
I  should  hate  it  !  " 

"  But  you  would  return  to  Paris  in  the  autumn," 
said  Martin. 

Again  she  frowned  and  broke  her  bread  impatiently. 
All  that  was  another  story.  "  But  never  mind 
about  me.  Tell  me  about  yourself,  Martin.  Perhaps 
we  may  fix  up  something  merry  to  do  together — Pere- 
Lachaise  or  the  Tomb  of  Napoleon.  How  long  are  you 
staying  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  afford  a  week — I've  already  had  three 
days.  I  must  look  out  for  another  billet  as  soon  as 
possible." 

"  Another  billet  ?  " 

Her  question  reminded  him  that  she  was  ignorant 
of  his  novel  position  as  professor  in  partihus.  He 
explained  over  the  bceitf  flamand.  Corinna,  putting 
the  "  other  story  "  of  her  own  trouble  aside,  hstened 
sympathetically.  All  Paris  art  students  must  learn  to 
do  that ;  otherwise  who  would  Hsten  sympathetically 
to  them  ?  And  all  art  students  want  a  prodigious 
amount  of  sympathy,  so  uniquely  constituted  is  each 
in  genius  and  temperament. 

"  You  can't  go  back  to  that  dog's  life,"  she  said 
after  a  while.  "  You  must  get  a  post  in  a  good  pubhc 
school." 

Martin  sighed.  "  Why  not  in  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  ?      It's    just    as    possible.      Heads  of    public 


12  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

schools  don't  engage  as  masters  men  who  haven't  a 
degree  and  have  hacked  out  their  youth  in  low-class 
institutions  Hke  Margett's.  I  know  only  too  well. 
To  have  been  at  Margett's  damns  me  utterly  with  the 
public  schools.     I  must  find  another  Margett's  !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  do  something  else  ?  "  asked  the 
girl. 

"  What  else  in  the  world  can  I  do  ?  You  know 
very  well  what  happened  to  me.  My  poor  old  father 
was  just  able  to  send  me  to  Cambridge  because  I  had 
a  good  scholarship.  When  he  died  there  was  nothing 
to  supplement  the  scholarship,  which  wasn't  enough 
to  keep  me  at  the  University.  I  had  to  go  down. 
My  mother  had  nothing  but  my  father's  life  insurance 
money — a  thousand  pounds — and  twenty  pounds  a 
year  from  the  Freemasons.  When  she  wrote  to  her 
relations  about  her  distress,  what  do  you  think  my 
damned  set  of  Swiss  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins  sent 
her  ?  Two  hundred  francs !  Eight  pounds !  And 
they're  all  rolHng  in  money  got  out  of  the  English.  I 
had  to  find  work  at  once  to  support  us  both.  My  only 
equipment  was  a  knowledge  of  French.  I  got  a  post 
at  Margett's  through  a  scholastic  agency.  I  thought 
it  a  miracle.  When  the  letter  came  accepting  my 
appKcation  I  didn't  sleep  all  night.  I  remained  there 
till  a  week  or  so  ago,  working  twelve  hours  a  day  all 
the  year  round.  I  don't  say  I  had  classes  for  twelve 
hours,"  he  admitted  conscientiously,  "  but  when  you 
see  about  a  couple  of  hundred  pupils  a  day  and  they 
all  do  written  work  which  needs  correcting,  you'll  find 
you  have  as  much  work  in  class  as  out  of  class.  Last 
night  I  dreamed  I  was  confronted  with  a  pile  of  exercise 
books  eight  feet  high." 

"  It's  a  dog's  life,"  Corinna  repeated. 

"  It  is,"  said  Martin.  "  Mais  que  veux-iu,  ma 
pauvre  Corinne.  I  detest  it  as  much  as  one  can  detest 
anything.  If  even  I  was  a  successful  teacher — passe 
encore.     But  I  doubt  whether  I  have  taught  anybody 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  13 

even  the  regime  du  pariicipe  passe  save  as  a  mathe- 
matical formula.  It's  heartrending.  It  has  turned  me 
into  a  brainless,  soulless,  heartless,  bloodless  machine." 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  glamour  of  the  Parisian 
meal  faded  away.  He  beheld  himself — as  he  had 
woefully  done  in  intervals  between  the  raptures  of  the 
past  few  days — an  anxious  and  despairing  young  man  : 
terribly  anxious  to  obtain  another  abhorred  teacher- 
ship,  yet  desperate  at  the  prospect  of  lifelong,  ineffectual 
drudgery.  Corinna,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  poising 
in  her  hand  a  teaspoonful  of  tepid  strawberry  ice, 
regarded  him  earnestly. 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  man,"  she  declared. 

"  What  would  you  do  ?  " 

She  swallowed  the  morsel  of  ice  and  dropped  her 
spoon  with  a  clatter. 

"  I  would  take  life  by  the  throat  and  choke  some- 
thing big  out  of  it,"  she  cried  dramatically. 

"  iProbably  an  ocean  of  tears  or  a  Sahara  of  despair," 
said  a  voice  from  the  door. 

Both  turned  sharply.  The  speaker  was  a  middle- 
aged  man  of  a  presence  at  once  commanding  and 
subservient.  He  had  a  shock  of  greyish  hair  brushed 
back  from  the  forehead  and  terminating  above  the 
collar  in  a  fashion  suggestive  of  the  late  Abbe  Liszt. 
His  clean-shaven  face  was  broad  and  massive  ;  the 
features  large  ;  eyes  grey  and  prominent ;  the  mouth 
loose  and  fleshy.  Many  lines  marked  it,  most  notice- 
able of  all  a  deep,  vertical  furrow  between  the  brows. 
He  was  dressed,  somewhat  shabbily,  in  a  black  frock- 
coat  suit,  and  wore  the  white  tie  of  the  French  attorney. 
His  voice  was  curiously  musical. 

"  Good  Lord,  Fortinbras,  how  you  startled  me  !  " 
exclaimed  Corinna. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  he,  coming  forward. 
"  When  you  turn  the  Petit  Cornichon  into  the  stage 
of  the  Od^on,  what  can  I  do  but  give  you  the  reply  } 
I  came  here  to  find  our  good  friend  Widdrington." 


14  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Widdrington  went  back  to  England  this  morning," 
she  announced. 

"  That's  a  pity,  I  had  good  news  for  him.  I  have 
arranged  his  little  affair.  Ke  should  be  here  to  profit 
by  it.  I  love  impulsiveness  in  j/outh,"  he  said  address- 
ing himself  to  Martin,  "  when  it  proceeds  from  noble 
ardour  ;  but  when  it  m.arks  the  feather-headed  irre- 
sponsibility of  the  idiot,  I  cannot  deprecate  it  too 
strongly." 

Challenged,  as  it  were,  for  a  response,  "  I  cordially 
agree  with  you,  sir,"  said  Martin. 

"  You  two  ought  to  know  one  another,"  said  Corinna. 
"  This  is  my  friend  Mr.  Overshaw — Martin,  let  me 
introduce  you  to  Mr.  Daniel  Fortinbras,  Marchand  de 
Bonheur." 

Fortinbras  extended  a  soft  white  hand,  and  holding 
Martin's  benevolently  : 

"  Which  being  translated  into  our  rougher  speech," 
said  he,  "  means  Dealer  in  Happiness." 

"  I  wish  you  would  provide  me  with  some,"  said 
Martin,  laughingly. 

"  And  so  do  I,"  said  Corinna. 

Fortinbras  drew  a  chair  to  the  table  and  sat  down. 

"  My  fee,"  said  he,  "  is  five  francs  each,  paid  in 
advance." 


CHAPTER  II 

At  this  unexpected  announcement  Martin  exchanged 
a  swift  glance  with  Corinna.  She  smiled,  drew  a 
five-franc  piece  from  her  purse  and  laid  it  on  the 
table.  Martin,  wondering,  did  the  same.  The  Mar- 
cliand  de  Bonheur  unbuttoned  his  frock-coat  and 
slipped  the  coins,  with  a  professional  air,  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"  Mr.  Overshaw,"  said  he,  "  you  must  understand, 
as  our  charming  friend  Corinna  Hastings  and  indeed 
half  the  Quartier  Latm  understand,  that  for  such 
happiness  as  it  may  be  my  good  fortune  to  provide  I 
do  not  charge  one  penny.  But  having  to  make  my 
professional  livelihood,  I  make  a  fixed  charge  of  five 
francs  for  every  consultation,  no  matter  whether  it  be 
for  ten  minutes  or  ten  hours.  And  for  the  matter  of 
that,  ten  hours  is  not  my  limit.  I  am  at  your  service 
for  an  indefinite  period  of  time,  provided  it  be  con- 
tinuous." 

"  That's  very  good  indeed  of  you,"  said  Martin. 
"  I  hope  you'U  join  us,"  he  added,  as  the  waiter 
approached  with  three  coffee-cups. 

"  No,  I  thank  you.  I  have  already  had  my  after- 
dinner  coffee.  But  if  I  might  take  the  liberty  of 
ordering  something  else ?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Martin  hospitably.  "  What 
will  you  have  ?  Cognac  ?  Liqueur  ?  Whisky  and 
soda  ?  " 

Fortinbras  held  up  his  hand — it  was  the  hand  of  a 
comfortable,  drowsy  prelate — and  smiled.  "  I  have 
not  touched  alcohol  for  many  years.     I  find  it  blunts 

15 


r6  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

the  delicacy  of  perception  which  is  essential  to  a 
Marchand  de  Bonheiir  in  the  exercise  of  his  calling. 
Auguste  will  give  me  a  sirop  de  framboise  d  I'eau." 

"  Bien,  m'sieu,"  said  Auguste. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  I  shall  smoke  with  pleasure 
one  of  your  excellent  English  cigarettes.  Thanks. 
Allow  me." 

With  something  of  the  grand  manner  he  held  a 
lighted  match  to  Corinna's  cigarette  and  to  Martin's. 
Then  he  blew  it  out  and  lit  another  for  his  own. 

"  A  superstition,"  said  he,  by  way  of  apology.  "  It 
arises  out  of  the  Russian  funeral  ritual  in  which  the 
three  altar  candles  are  lit  by  the  same  taper.  To  apply 
the  same  method  of  illumination  to  three  worldly  things 
hke  cigars  or  cigarettes  is  regarded  as  an  act  of  impiety, 
and  hence  as  unlucky.  For  two  people  to  dip  their 
hands  together  in  the  same  basin  without  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross  in  the  water  is  unlucky  on  account 
of  the  central  incident  of  the  Last  Supper,  and  to  spill 
the  salt  as  you  are  absent-mindedly  doing,  Corinna,  is  a 
violation  of  the  sacred  symbol  of  sworn  friendship." 

"  That's  all  very  interesting,"  said  Corinna  calmly. 
"  But  what  are  Martin  Overshaw  and  I  to  do  to  be 
happy  ?  " 

Fortinbras  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with 
benevolent  shrewdness,  and  inhaled  a  long  puff  of 
smoke. 

"  Wliat  about  our  young  medical  student  friend, 
Camille  Fargot  ?  " 

Corinna  flushed  red — as  only  pale  blondes  can  flush. 
"  What  do  you  know  about  Camille  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Everything — and  nothing.  Come,  come.  It's  my 
business  to  keep  a  paternal  eye  on  you  children.  Where 
is  he  ?  " 

"  Who  the  deuce  is  Camille  ?  "  thought  Martin. 

"  He's  at  Bordeaux,  safe  in  the  arms  of  his  ridiculous 
mother,"  replied  Corinna  tartly. 

"  Good,  good,"   said  Fortinbras.     "  And  you,  Mr. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  17 

Overshaw,  where  is  the  lady  on  whom  you  have  set 
your  affections  ?  " 

Martin  laughed  frankly.  "  Heaven  knows.  There 
isn't  one.  The  Prvicesse  lointaine,  perhaps,  whom 
I've  never  seen." 

Fortinbras  again  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
"  This  compHcates  matters,"  said  he.  "  On  the  other 
hand,  perhaps,  it  simphfies  them.  There  being  nothing 
common,  however,  to  your  respective  roads  to  happi- 
ness, each  case  must  be  dealt  with  separately.  Place 
aiix  dames — Corinna  will  first  expose  to  me  the  sources 
of  her  divine  discontent.     Proceed,  Corinna." 

She  drummed  with  her  fingers  on  the  table,  and 
little  wrinkles  lined  her  young  forehead.  Martin 
pushed  back  his  chair. 

"  Hadn't  I  better  go  for  a  walk  until  it  is  my  turn 
to  be  interviewed  ?  " 

Corinna  bade  him  not  be  silly.  Whatever  she  had 
to  say  he  was  welcome  to  hear.  It  would  be  better  if 
he  did  hear  it ;  then  he  might  appreciate  the  lesser 
misery  of  his  own  plight. 

"  I'm  an  utter,  hopeless  failure,"  she  cried  with  an 
air  of  defiance. 

"  Good,"  said  Fortinbras. 

"  I  can't  paint  worth  a  cent." 

"  Good,"  said  Fortinbras. 

"  That  old  beast  Delafosse  says  I'U  never  learn  to 
draw  and  I'm  colour-blind.  That's  a  brutal  way  of 
putting  it ;  but  it's  more  or  less  true.  Consequently 
I  can't  earn  my  living  by  painting  pictures.  No  one 
would  buy  them." 

"  Then  they  must  be  very  bad  indeed,"  murmured 
Fortinbras. 

"  Well,  that's  it,"  said  Corinna.  "  I'm  done  for. 
An  old  aunt  died  and  left  me  a  legacy  of  four  hundred 
pounds.  I  thought  I  could  best  use  it  by  coming  to 
Paris  to  study  art.  I've  been  at  it  three  years,  and 
I'm  as  clever  as  when  I  began.     I  have  about  tv/enty 


i8  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

pounds  left.  When  it's  gone  I  shall  have  to  go  home 
to  my  smug  and  chuckhng  family.  There  are  ten  of 
us.  I'm  the  eldest,  and  the  youngest  is  three  months 
old.  Pretty  fit  I  should  be  after  three  years  of  Paris 
to  go  back.  When  I  was  at  home  last,  if  ever  I  referred 
to  an  essential  fact  of  physiological  or  social  existence 
my  good  mother  called  me  immodest,  and  my  sisters, 
goggle-eyed  and  breathless,  besought  me  in  corners  to 
tell  them  all  about  it.  When  I  tell  them  I  know  people 
who  haven't  gone  through  the  ceremony  of  marriage 
they  think  I'm  giving  them  a  peep  into  some  awful 
hell  of  iniquity.  It's  a  fearful  joy  to  them.  Then 
mother  says  I'm  corrupting  their  young  and  innocent 
minds,  and  father  mentions  me  at  family  prayers. 
And  the  way  they  run  after  any  young  man  that 
happens  along  is  sickening.  I'm  a  prudish  old  maid 
compared  with  them.  Have  you  ever  seen  me  running 
after  men  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  modern  Penthesilea,"  said  Fortinbras. 

"  Anyway,  M^endlebury — that's  my  home — would 
drive  me  mad,  I'll  have  to  go  away  and  fend  for 
myself.  Father  can't  give  me  an  allowance.  It's  as 
much  as  he  can  do  to  pay  his  butcher's  biUs,  Besides, 
I'm  not  that  sort.  What  I  do,  I  must  do  on  my  own. 
But  I  can't  do  anything  to  get  a  living.  I  can't  type- 
write, I  don't  know  shorthand,  I  can  scarcely  sew 
a  button  on  a  camisole,  I'm  not  quite  sure  of  my 
multipHcation  table,  I  couldn't  add  up  a  column  of 
pounds,  shillings  and  pence  correctly  to  save  my  life, 
I  play  the  devil  with  an  egg  if  I  put  it  into  a  saucepan, 
and  if  I  attempted  to  bath  a  baby  I  should  drown  it. 
I'm  twenty-four  years  of  age,  and  a  helpless,  useless 
failure." 

Fortinbras  drank  some  of  his  raspberry  syrup  and 
water  and  lit  another  cigarette. 

"  And  you  have  still  twenty  pounds  in  your  pocket  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Corinna,  "  and  I  shan't  go  home  until 
I've  spent  the  last  penny.     That's  why  I'm  in  Paris' 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  19 

drinking  its  August  dregs.  I've  already  bought  a 
third-class  ticket  to  London — available  for  six  months 
— so  I  can  get  back  any  time  without  coming  down  on 
my  people." 

"  That  act  of  pusillanimous  prudence,"  remarked 
Fortinbras,  "  seems  to  me  to  be  a  flaw  in  an  otherwise 
admirable  scheme  of  immediate  existence.  If  the 
ravens  fed  an  impossibly  unhumorous,  and  probably 
unprepossessing,  disagreeable  person  hke  Elijah,  surely 
there  are  doves  who  wiU  minister  to  the  sustenance  of 
an  attractive  and  keen-witted  young  woman  hke 
yourself.  But  that  is  a  mere  generalization.  I  only 
wish  you,"  said  he,  bending  forward  and  paternally 
and  dehcately  touching  her, hand,  "  I  only  wish  you 
to  take  heart  of  grace,  and  not  strangle  yourself  in  your 
exhaustively  drawTi  up  category  of  incompetence." 

The  man's  manner  was  so  sympathetic,  his  deep 
voice  so  persuasive,  the  smile  in  his  eyes  so  under- 
standing, the  massive,  lined  face  so  illuminated  by 
wise  tenderness  that  his  words  fell  hke  balm  on  her 
rebelhous  spirit  before  their  significance,  or  want  of 
significance,  could  be  analysed  by  her  intellect.  The 
intensity  of  attitude  and  feature  with  which  her  con- 
fession had  been  attended  relaxed  into  girlish  ease. 

She  laughed  somewhat  self-consciously,  and  took  a 
cigarette  from  the  packet  offered  her  by  a  silent  and 
wondering  Martin.  She  perked  up  her  shapely  head, 
and  once  more  the  cock-pheasant's  plume  on  her 
cheap  straw  hat  gave  her  a  pleasant  air  of  bragga- 
docio. Martin  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  she  had 
a  little  mutinous  nose  and  a  defiant  lift  of  the  chin 
above  a  broad  white  throat.  He  found  it  difficult  to 
harmonize  her  appearance  of  confident  efficiency  with 
her  lamentable  avowal  of  failure.  Those  blue  eyes, 
somewhat  hard  beneath  the  square  brow,  ought  to  have 
commanded  success.  Those  strong  nervous  hands 
were  of  just  the  kind  to  choke  the  great  things  out  of 
life.     He  could  not  suddenly  divest  himself  of  pre- 


20  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

conceived  ideas.  To  the  dull,  unaspiring  drudge, 
Corinna  Hastings  leading  the  fabulous  existence  of  the 
Paris  studios  had  been  invested  with  such  mystery  as 
surrounded  the  goddesses  of  the  Gaiety  Theatre  and 
the  Headmaster  of  Eton.  .  .  . 

Martin  also  reflected  that  in  her  Utany  of  woe  she 
had  omitted  all  reference  to  the  medical  student  now 
in  the  arms  of  his  ridiculous  mother.  He  began  to  feel 
mildly  jealous  of  this  Camille  Fargot,  who  assumed  the 
shadow  shape  of  a  mahgnant  influence.  Yet  she  did 
not  appear  to  be  the  young  woman  to  tolerate  aggres- 
sive folly  on  the  part  of  a  commonplace  young  man. 
Fortinbras  himself  had  called  her  Penthesilea,  Queen 
of  the  Amazons.     He  was  puzzled. 

"  What  you  say  is  very  comforting  and  exhilarating, 
Fortinbras,"  remarked  Corinna,  "  but  can't  you  let 
me  have  something  practical  ?  " 

"All  in  good  time,  my  dear,"  repHcd  Fortinbras 
serenely.  "  I  have  no  quack  nostrums  to  hand  over 
at  a  minute's  notice.  Auguste — "  he  summoned  the 
waiter,  and  addressed  him  in  fluent  French,  marred  by 
a  Britannic  accent :  "  Give  me  another  glass  of  this 
obscene  though  harmless  beverage  and  satisfy  the 
needs  of  monsieur  and  mademoiselle,  and  after  that 
leave  us  in  peace,  and  if  any  one  seeks  to  penetrate  into 
this  salle  a  manger,  say  that  it  is  engaged  by  a  Lodge 
of  Freemasons.  Here  is  remuneration  for  your  pro- 
spective zeal." 

With  impressive  flourish  he  deposited  fifteen  centimes 
in  the  palm  of  Auguste,  who  bowed  politely. 

"  Merci,  m'sieu,"  said  he.    "  Et  monsieur,  dame ?  " 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  Martin,  and  Martin  looked 
inquiringly  at  Corinna. 

"  Em  going  to  blue  twenty  pounds,"  she  replied. 
"  ril  have  a  kiimmel  glace." 

"  And  Ell  have  the  same,"  said  Martin,  "  though  I 
don't  in  the  least  know  what  it  is." 

The  waiter  retired.     Corinna  leaned  across  the  table. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  21 

"  You're  thirty  years  of  age,  and  you've  lived  ten 
years  in  London,  and  have  never  seen  kiimmel  served 
with  crushed  ice  and  straws  ?  " 

"  No,"  rephed  Martin  simply.     "  What  is  kiirnmel  ?  " 

She  regarded  him  in  wonderment.  "  Have  you  ever 
heard  of  champagne  ?  " 

"  More  often  than  I've  tasted  it,"  said  Martin. 

"  This  young  man,"  remarked  Corinna,  "  has  seen 
as  much  of  Hfe  as  a  squirrel  in  a  cage.  That  may  not 
be  very  polite,  Martin — but  you  know  it's  true.  Can 
you  dance  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Martin. 

"  Have  you  ever  fired  off  a  gun  ?  " 

"  I  was  once  in  the  Cambridge  University  Rifle 
Corps,"  said  Martin. 

"  You  used  a  rifle,  not  a  gun,"  cried  Corinna.  "  Have 
you  ever  shot  a  bird  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Martin. 

"  Or  caught  a  fish  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Martin. 

"  Can  you  play  cricket,  golf,  ride ?  " 

"  A  bicycle,"  said  Martin. 

"  That's  something,  anyhow.  What  do  you  use  it 
for  ?  " 

"  To  go  backwards  and  forwards  to  my  work,"  said 
Martin. 

"  What  do  you  do  in  the  way  of  amusement  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Martin,  with  a  sigh. 

"  My  good  Fortinbras,"  said  Corinna,  "  you  have 
your  work  cut  out  for  you." 

The  waiter  brought  the  drinks,  and  after  inquiring 
whether  they  needed  all  the  electricity  turned  out 
most  of  the  lights. 

Martin  always  remembered  the  scene  :  the  little  low- 
ceilinged  room  with  its  grotesque  decorations  looming 
fantastic  through  the  semi-darkness  ;  the  noises  and 
warm  smells  rising  from  the  narrow  street ;  the  eyes 
of  the  girl  opposite  raised  somev/hat  mockingly  to  his 


22  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

as  straw  in  mouth  she  bent  her  head  over  the  iced 
kiimmel ;  the  burly  figure  and  benevolent  face  of 
their  queer  companion,  who  for  five  francs  had  offered 
to  be  the  arbiter  of  his  destiny,  and  leaned  forward, 
elbow  on  table  and  chin  in  hand,  serenely  expectant 
to  hear  the  inmost  secrets  of  his  life. 

He  felt  tongue-tied  and  shy,  and  sucking  too  ner- 
vously at  his  straw  choked  himself  with  the  strong 
Hqueur.  It  was  one  thing  to  unburden  himself  to 
Corinna,  another  to  make  coherent  statement  of  his 
grievance  to  a  stranger. 

"I  am  at  your  disposal,  my  dear  Overshaw,"  said 
the  latter  kindly.  "  From  personal  observation  and 
from  your  answers  to  Corinna's  enfilade  of  questions, 
I  gather  that  you  are  not  overwhelmed  by  any  cataclysm 
of  disaster,  but  rather  that  yours  is  the  more  negative 
tragedy  of  a  starved  soul — a  poor,  starved  soul  hunger- 
ing for  love  and  joy  and  the  fruitfulness  of  the  earth 
and  the  bounty  of  spiritual  things.  Your  difficulty 
now  is  :  How  to  say  to  this  man,  *  Give  me  bread  for 
my  soul '  ?     Am  I  not  right  ?  " 

A  ghmmer  of  irony  in  his  smiling  grey  eyes  or  an 
inflexion  of  it  in  his  persuasive  voice  would  have 
destroyed  the  flattering  effect  of  the  Httle  speech. 
Martin  had  never  taken  his  soul  into  account.  The 
diagnosis  shed  a  new  light  on  his  state  of  being.  The 
starvation  of  his  soul  was  certainly  the  root  of  the 
trouble  ;  an  infinitely  more  dignified  matter  than  mere 
discontent  with  one's  environment. 

"  Yes,"  said  he.  "  You're  right.  I've  had  no 
chance  of  development.  My  own  fault  perhaps.  I've 
not  been  strong  enough  to  battle  against  circumstances. 
Circumstances  have  imprisoned  me,  as  Corinna  says, 
like  a  squirrel  in  a  cage,  and  I've  spent  my  time  in 
going  round  and  round  in  the  profitless  wheel." 

"  And  the  nature  of  the  wheel  ?  "  asked  Fortinbras. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Margett's  Universal 
College  ?  " 


i 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  23 

"  I  have,"  said  Fortinbras.  "  It  is  one  of  the  many 
mind-wrecking  institutions  of  which  our  beloved 
country  is  so  proud." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  cried  Martin. 
"  I've  been  helping  to  wreck  minds  there  for  the  last 
ten  years.  I've  taught  French.  Not  the  French 
language,  but  examination  French.  When  the  son  of 
a  greengrocer  wants  to  get  a  boy-clerkship  in  the 
Civil  Service,  it's  essential  that  he  should  know  that 
bal,  cal,  carnaval,  pal,  regal,  chacal  take  an  "  s  "  in  the 
plural,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  millions  of  Frenchmen 
go  through  their  lives  without  once  uttering  the 
plural  words." 

"  How  came  you  to  teach  French  ?  " 

"  My  mother-tongue — my  mother  was  a  Swiss." 

"  And  your  father  ?  " 

"  An  EngHsh  chaplain  in  Switzerland.  You  see  it 
was  like  this " 

And  so,  started  on  his  course,  and  helped  here  and 
there  by  a  shrewd  and  sympathetic  question,  Martin, 
the  ingenuous,  told  his  story,  while  Corinna,  slightly 
bored,  having  heard  most  of  it  already,  occupied 
herself  by  drawing  a  villainous  portrait  of  him  on  the 
table-cloth.  Wlien  he  mentioned  details  unknown  to 
her  she  paused  in  her  task  and  raised  her  eyes.  Like 
her  own,  his  autobiography  was  a  catalogue  of  incom- 
petence, but  it  held  no  record  of  frustrated  ambitions — 
no  record  of  any  ambitious  desire  whatever.  It 
showed  the  tame  ass's  unreflecting  acquiescence  in  its 
lot  of  drudgery.  There  had  been  no  passionate  craving 
for  things  of  delight.  Why  cry  for  the  moon  ?  With 
a  salary  of  a  hundred  and  thirty-five  pounds  a  year 
out  of  which  he  must  contribute  to  the  support  of  his 
widowed  mother,  a  man  can  purchase  for  himself  but 
little  splendour  of  existence,  and  Martin  was  not  one 
of  those  to  whom  splendour  comes  unbought.  He  had 
Hved,  semi-content,  in  a  fog  splendour-obscuring  for 
the  last  ten  years.     But  this  evening  the  fog  had  lifted. 


24  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

The  glamour  of  Paris,  even  the  Pantheon  and  the 
Eiffel  Tower  sarcastically  mentioned  by  Corinna,  had 
helped  to  dispel  it.  So  had  Corinna's  sisterly  interest 
in  his  dull  affairs.  And  so,  more  than  all,  had  helped 
the  self-analysis  formulated  under  the  compelling 
power  of  the  philanthropist  with  shiny  coat-sleeves  and 
frayed  linen,  at  once  priest,  lawyer,  and  physician,  who 
had  pocketed  his  five-franc  fee. 

He  talked  long  and  earnestly  ;  and  the  more  he 
talked  and  the  more  minutely  he  revealed  the  aridity 
of  his  young  life,  the  stronger  grew  within  him  a 
hitherto  unknown  spirit  of  revolt. 

"  That's  all,"  he  said  at  last,  wiping  a  streaming 
brow. 

"  And  very  interesting  indeed,"  said  Fortinbras. 

"  Isn't  it  ?  "  said  Corinna.  "  And  he  never  even 
kissed  " — so  complete  had  been  Martin's  apologia — 
"  the  landlady's  daughter  who  married  the  plumber." 
She  challenged  him  with  a  glance.  "  I  swear  you 
didn't." 

With  a  shy  twist  of  his  lips  Martin  confessed  : 

"  Well— I  did  once." 

"  Why  not  twice  ?  "  asked  Corinna. 

"  Yes,  why  not  ?  "  asked  Fortinbras,  seeing  Martin 
hesitate,  and  his  smile  was  archiepiscopal  indulgence. 
"  Why  but  one  taste  of  ambrosial  hps  ?  " 

Martin  reddened  beneath  his  olive  skin.  "  I  hardly 
like  to  say — it  seems  so  indelicate " 

"Allans  done,"  cried  Corinna.  "  We're  in  Paris,  not 
Wendlebury." 

"  We  must  get  to  the  bottom  of  this,  my  dear 
Martin — it's  a  privilege  I  demand  from  my  clients  to 
address  them  by  their  Christian  names — otherwise  how 
can  I  establish  the  necessary  intimate  rapport  between 
them  and  myself  ?  So  I  repeat,  my  dear  Martin,  we 
must  have  the  reason  for  the  rupture  or  the  dissolution 
or  the  termination  of  what  seems  to  be  the  ^nly 
romantic  episode  in  your  cai-eer.     I'm  not  joking," 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  25 

Fortinbras  added  gravely,  after  a  pause.  "  From  the 
psychological  point  of  view,  it  is  important  that  I 
should  know." 

Martin  looked  appealingly  from  one  to  the  other — 
from  Fortinbras  massively  serious  to  Corinna  serenely 
mocking. 

"  A  weeny  unencouraged  plumber  ?  "  she  suggested. 

He  sat  bolt  upright  and  gasped,  "  Good  God,  no  !  " 
He  flushed  indignant.  "  She  was  a  most  highly 
respectable  girl.  Nothing  of  that  sort.  I  wish  I 
hadn't  mentioned  the  matter.  It's  entirely  unim- 
portant." 

"  If  that  is  so,"  said  Corinna,  "  why  didn't  you  kiss 
the  girl  again  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  know,"  replied  Martin  despe- 
rately, "  I  have  a  constitutional  horror  of  the  smell  of 
onions,"  and  mechanically  he  sucked  through  his  straw 
the  tepid  residue  of  melted  ice  in  his  glass. 

Corinna  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed 
uncontrollably.  It  was  just  the  lunatic  sort  of  thing 
that  would  happen  to  poor  old  Martin.  She  knew  her 
sex.  Instantaneously  she  pictured  in  her  mind  the 
fluffy,  lower  middle-class  young  person  who  set  her 
cap  at  the  gentleman  with  the  long  Grecian  nose,  and 
she  entered  into  her  devastated  frame  of  mind  when 
he  wriggled  awkwardly  out  of  further  osculatory 
invitations.  And  the  good,  solid  plumber,  onion- 
loving  soul,  had  carried  her  off,  not  figuratively  but 
literally,  under  the  nose  of  Martin. 

"  Oh,  Martin,  you're  too  funny  for  wcrds  !  "  she 
cried. 

Fortinbras  smiled  always  benevolently.  "  If  Cleo- 
patra's nose  had  been  a  centimetre  longer — I  forget 
the  exact  classical  epigram — the  history  of  the  world 
would  have  been  changed.  In  a  minor  degree — for  the 
destiny  of  an  individual  must,  of  course,  be  of  less 
importance  than  the  destiny  of  manli^nd — had  it  not 
been  for  one  spring  onion,  unconsidered  feUow  of  the 


V 


26  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

robin  and  the  burnished  dove  and  the  wanton  lapwing, 
this  young  man's  fancy  would  have  been  fettered  in 
the  thoughts  of  love.  One  spring  onion — and  human 
destinies  are  juggled.  Martin  is  still  a  soul-starved 
bachelor,  and — and — her  name  ?  " 

"  GwendoHne." 

"  And  GwendoHne  is  the  buxom  mother  of  five." 

"Six,"  said  Martin.  "  I  can't  help  knowing,"  he 
explained,  "  since  I  still  lodge  with  her  mother." 

Corinna  turned  her  head  sideways  to  scrutinize  the 
drawing  on  the  table-cloth,  and,  still  scrutinizing  it, 
asked : 

"  And  that  is  your  one  and  only  affaire  de  coeur  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  the  only  one,"  replied  Martin  shame- 
facedly. Even  so  mild  a  man  as  he  felt  the  disad- 
vantage of  not  being  able  to  hint  to  a  woman  that  he 
could  talk,  an  he  would,  of  chimes  heard  at  midnight 
and  of  broken  hearts  and  other  circumstances  hedging 
round  a  devil  of  a  fellow.  His  one  kiss  seemed  a  very 
bread-and-buttery  affair — to  say  nothing  of  the  mirth- 
provoking  onion.  And  the  emotion  attending  the 
approach  to  it  had  been  of  a  nature  so  tepid  that 
disillusion  caused  scarcely  a  pang.  It  had  been  better 
to  pose  as  an  out-and-out  Sir  Galahad,  a  type  compre- 
hensible to  women.  As  the  hero  of  one  invertebrate 
embrace  he  cut  a  sorry  figure. 

"  You  are  still  young.  The  years  and  the  women's 
lips  before  you  are  many,"  said  Fortinbras,  laying  a 
comforting  touch  on  Martin's  shoulder.  "  Oppor- 
tunity makes  the  lover  as  it  does  the  thief.  And  in 
the  bed-sitting-room  in  Hickney  Heath  where  you  have 
spent  your  young  life  where  has  been  the  opportunity  ? 
It  pleases  our  Paris-hardened  young  friend  to  mock  ; 
but  I  see  in  you  the  making  of  a  great  lover,  a  Bertrand 
d'Allamanon,  a  Chastelard,  one  who  will  count  the 
world  well  lost  for  a  princess's  smile " 

Corinna  interrupted.  "  What  pernicious  nonsense 
are  you  talking,  Fortinbras  ?     You've  got  love  on  the 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  27 

brain  to-night.  Neither  Martin  nor  I  are  worrying 
our  heads  about  it.  Love  be  hanged !  We're  each  of 
us  worried  to  death  over  the  problem  of  how  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together  without  going  back  to  prison, 
and  you  talk  all  this  drivel  about  love — at  least  not  to 
me,  but  to  Martin." 

"  That  qualification,  my  dear  Corinna,  upsets  the 
logic  of  your  admirable  tirade,"  Fortinbras  replied 
calmly,  after  drinking  the  remainder  of  his  syrup  and 
soda-water.  "  I  speak  of  love  to  Martin  because  his 
soul  is  starved,  as  I've  already  declared.  I  don't  speak 
of  it  to  you,  because  your  soul  is  suffering  from 
indigestion." 

"  I'll  have  another  kiimmel  glace,"  said  Corinna. 
"  It's  a  stomachic."  She  reached  for  the  bell-pull 
behind  her  chair — she  had  the  corner  seat.  Auguste 
appeared.  Orders  were  repeated.  "  How  you  can 
drink  all  that  syrup  without  being  sick,  I  can't  under- 
stand," she  remarked. 

"  Omnicomprehension  is  not  vouchsafed  even  to  the 
very  young  and  innocent,  my  dear,"  said  Fortinbras. 

Martin  glanced  across  the  table  apprehensively.  If 
ever  young  woman  had  been  set  down  that  young 
woman  was  Corinna  Hastings.  He  feared  explosion, 
annihilation  of  the  down-setter  Nothing  of  the  sort 
happened.  Corinna  accepted  the  rebuff  with  the 
meekness  of  a  schoolgirl,  and.  sniffed  when  Fortinbras 
was  not  looking.  Again  Martin  was  puzzled,  unable 
to  divest  himself  of  his  old  conception  of  Corinna.  She 
was  Corinna,  chartered  libertine  of  the  land  of  Rodolfe, 
Marcel,  Schaunard — he  had  few  impressions  of  the 
Quartier  Latin  later  than  Henri  Murger — and  her 
utterances,  no  matter  how  illogical,  were  derived  from 
godlike  inspiration.  He  hung  on  her  lips  for  some 
inspired  and  vehement  rejoinder  to  the  rebuke  of 
Fortinbras.  When  none  came  he  realized  that  in  the 
seedily  dressed  and  now  profusely  perspiring  Marchand 
de  Bonheur  she   had   met   an  acknowledged  master. 


28  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Who  Fortinbras  was,  whence  his  origin,  what  his 
character  and  social  status,  how,  save  by  the  precarious 
methods  to  which  he  had  alluded,  he  earned  his  liveli- 
hood, Martin  had  no  idea  ;  but  he  suddenly  conceived 
an  immense  respect  for  Fortinbras.  The  man  hovered 
over  both  of  them  on  a  higher  plane  of  wisdom.  From 
his  kind  eyes  (to  Martin's  simple  fancy)  beamed 
uncanny  power.  He  assumed  the  semblance  of  an 
odd  sort  of  god  indigenous  to  this  Paris  wonder-world. 

Fortinbras  lit  another  of  Martin's  Virginian  cigarettes 
■ — the  little  tin  box  lay  open  on  the  table — and  leaned 
back  in  his  chair. 

"  My  young  friends,"  said  he,  "  you  have  each  put 
before  me  the  circumstances  which  have  made  you 
respectively  despair  of  finding  happiness  both  in  the 
immediate  and  the  distant  future.  Now  as  Montaigne 
says — an  author  whom  I  would  recommend  to  you  for 
the  edification  of  your  happily  remote  middle  age, 
having  mj^self  found  infinite  consolation  in  his  sagacity 
— as  Montaigne  says  :  '  Men  are  tormented  by  the 
ideas  they  have  concerning  things,  and  not  by  the 
things  themselves.'  The  wise  man  therefore — the 
general  term,  my  dear  Corinna,  includes  women — is  he 
who  has  learned  to  face  things  themselves  after  having 
dispelled  the  bogies  of  his  ideas  concerning  them.  It 
is  on  this  basis  that  I  am  about  to  deliver  the  judgment 
for  which  I  have  duly  received  my  fee  of  ten  francs." 

He  moistened  his  Hps  with  the  pink  s^nrup.  For  the 
picture  you  can  imagine  a  grey  old  lion  eating  ice- 
cream. 

"  You,  Corinna,"  he  continued,  "  belong  to  the  new 
race  of  women  whose  claims  on  Hfe  far  exceed  their 
justification.  You  have  as  assets  youth,  a  modicum 
of  beauty,  a  bright  intelligence,  and  a  stiff  little 
character.  But,  as  you  rightly  say,  you  are  capable 
of  nothing  in  the  steep  range  of  human  effort  from 
painting  a  picture  to  washing  a  baby.  Were  you  not 
temperamentally  puritanical  and  intellectually  obsessed 


THE  V/ONDERFUL  YEAR  29 

by  the  modern  notion  of  woman's  right  to  an  inde- 
pendent existence,  you  would  find  a  means  of  reahzing 
the  above-mentioned  assets,  as  your  sex  has  done 
through  the  centuries.  But  in  spite  of  amazonian 
trifling  with  romantic-visaged  and  granite-headed 
medical  students,  you  cling  to  the  irresponsibilities  of 
a  celibate  career." 

"  If  he  asked  me,  I'd  marry  a  Turk  to-morrow,"  said 
Corinna. 

"  Don't  interrupt,"  said  Fortinbras.  "  You  disturb 
the  flow  of  my  ideas.  I  have  no  doubt  that,  in  your 
desperate  situation,  you  would  promise  to  marry  a 
Turk  ;  but  your  essential  pusillanimity  would  make 
you  wriggle  out  of  it,  at  the  last  moment.  You're 
like  '  the  poor  cat  in  the  adage.'  " 

"  What  cat  ?  "  asked  Corinna. 

"  The  one  in  Macbeth,  Act  i.  Scene  3,  a  play  by 
Shakespeare.  '  Letting  "  I  dare  not "  wait  upon 
"  I  v,'ould,"  lil^e  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage.'  You  require 
development,  my  dear  Corinna,  out  of  the  cat  stage. 
You  have  had  your  head  choked  with  ideas  about 
things  in  this  soul-suffocating  Paris,  and  the  ideas  are 
tormenting  you  ;  but  you've  never  been  at  grips  with 
things  themselves.  As  for  our  excellent  Martin,  he  has 
not  even  arrived  at  the  stage  of  the  desirous  cat." 

The  smile  that  lit  up  his  coarse,  lined  features  and 
the  musical  suavity  of  his  voice  divested  the  words  of 
offence.  Martin,  with  a  laugh,  assented  to  the  pro- 
position. 

"  He,  too,  needs  development,"  Fortinbras  went  on. 
"  Or  rather,  not  so  much  development  as  a  collection 
of  soul-material  from  which  development  may  proceed 
Your  one  accomplishm.ent,  I  understand,  is  riding  a 
bicycle.  Let  us  take  that  as  the  germ  from  which  the 
tree  of  happiness  may  spring.  Do  you  bicycle, 
Corinna  ?  " 

"  I  can,  of  course.     But  I  hate  it." 

"  You   don't,"   replied   Fortinbras   quickly.     "  You 


30  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

hate  your  own  idea  of  it.  You'll  begin  your  course  of 
happiness  by  sweeping  away  all  your  ideas  concerning 
bicycling  and  coming  to  bicycling  itself." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  so  idiotic,"  declared 
Corinna. 

"  Doubtless,"  smiled  Fortinbras.  "  You  haven't 
heard  everything.  Go  on  your  knees  and  thank  God 
for  it.  I  repeat — or  amplify  my  prescription.  Go 
forth  both  of  you  on  bicycles  into  the  wide  world.  They 
will  not  be  Wheels  of  Chance,  but  Wheels  of  Destiny. 
Go  through  the  broad  land  of  France,  filhng  your  souls 
with  sunshine  and  freedom,  and  your  throats  with 
salutary  and  thirst-provoking  dust.  Have  no  care  for 
the  morrow,  and  look  at  the  future  through  the  golden 
haze  of  eventide." 

"  There's  nothing  I  should  like  better,"  said  Martin, 
with  a  glance  at  Corinna,  "  but  I  can't  afford 
it.  I  must  get  back  to  London  to  look  out  for  an 
engagement." 

Fortinbras  mopped  his  brow  with  an  over-fatigued 
pocket-handkerchief. 

"  What  did  you  pay  me  five  francs  for  ?  For  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  me  talk,  or  for  the  value  of  my 
counsel  ?  " 

"  I  must  look  at  things  practically,"  said  Martin. 

"  But,  good  God  !  "  cried  Fortinbras,  with  soft 
uplifted  hands,  "  what  is  there  more  practical,  more 
commonplace,  less  romantic  in  the  world  than  riding 
a  bicycle  ?  You  want  to  emerge  from  your  Slough  of 
Despond,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Martin. 

"  Then  I  say — get  on  a  bicycle,  and  ride  out  of  it. 
Practical  to  the  point  of  bathos." 

Martin  objected  :  "No  one  will  pay  me  for  careering 
through  France  on  a  bicycle.  I've  got  to  Hve,  and,  for 
the  matter  of  fact,  so  has  Corinna." 

"  But,  my  dear  young  friend,  she  has  twenty  pounds. 
You,  on  your  own  showing,  have  forty.     Sixty  pounds 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  31 

between  you.  A  fortune  !  You  both  are  tormented 
by  the  idea  of  what  will  happen  when  the  Pactolus 
runs  dry.  Banish  that  pestilential  miasma  from  your 
minds.     Go  on  the  adventure." 

In  poetic  terms  he  set  forth  the  delights  of  that 
admirable  vagabondage.  His  eloquence  sent  a  thrill 
through  Martin's  veins,  causing  his  blood  to  tingle. 
Before  him  new  horizons  broadened.  He  felt  the 
necessity  of  the  immediate  securing  of  an  engagement 
grow  less  insistent.  If  he  got  home  with  twenty 
pounds  in  his  pocket,  even  fifteen,  at  a  pinch  ten,  he 
could  manage  to  subsist  until  he  found  work.  And 
perhaps  this  blandly  authoritative  though  seedy  angel 
really  saw  into  the  future.  The  temptation  fascinated 
him.  He  glanced  again  at  Corinna,  who  sat  demure 
and  silent,  her  chin  propped  on  her  fists,  and  his  heart 
sank.  The  proposition  was  absurd.  How  could  he 
ride  abroad  for  an  indefinite  number  of  days  and 
nights  with  a  young  unmarried  woman  ?  Of  himself 
he  had  no  fear.  Undesirous  cat  though  he  was,  sent 
forth  on  the  journey  into  the  world  to  learn  desire,  he 
could  not  but  remain  a  gentleman.  In  his  charge  she 
would  enjoy  a  sister's  sanctity.  But  she  would  never 
consent.  She  could  not.  No  matter  how  profound 
her  belief  in  his  chivalry,  her  maiden  modesty  would 
revolt.  Her  reputation  would  be  gone.  One  whisper 
in  Wendlebury  of  such  gipsying  and  scandal  with  bared 
scissor-points  would  arrest  her  on  the  station  platform. 
And  while  these  thoughts  agitated  his  mind,  and 
Corinna  kept  her  eyes  always  demure  and  somewhat 
ironical  on  Fortinbras,  the  latter  continued  to  talk. 

"  I'm  not  advising  you,"  said  he,  "  to  pedal  away 
like  little  pilgrims  into  the  Unknown.  I  propose  for 
you  an  objective.  In  the  little  town  of  Brantome  in 
the  Dordogne,  made  illustrious  by  one  of  the  quaintest 
of  French  writers " 

"  The  Abbe  Brantome  of  La  Vie  des  Dames 
Galantes  ?  "  asked  Corinna. 


32  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Martin  gasped.     "  You  don't  know  that  book  ?  " 

"  By  heart,"  she  replied  mischievously,  in  order  to 
shock  Martin.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  but  turned 
over  the  pages  of  the  immortal  work  and  laid  it  down, 
disconcerted  both  by  the  archaic  French  and  the  full 
flavour  of  such  an  anecdote  or  two  as  she  could 
understand. 

"  In  the  little  town  of  Brantome,"  Fortinbras 
continued  after  a  pause,  "  you  will  find  an  hotel  called 
the  Hotel  des  Grottes,  kept  by  an  excellent  and  massive 
man  by  the  name  of  Bigourdin,  a  poet  and  a  philosopher 
and  a  mighty  maker  of  pate  de  foie  gras.  A  line  from 
me  would  put  you  on  his  lowest  tariff,  for  he  has  a 
descending  scale  of  charges,  one  for  motorists,  another 
for  commercial  travellers,  and  a  third  for  human 
beings." 

"It  would  be  utterly  delightful,"  Martin  interrupted, 
"  if  it  were  possible." 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be  possible?"  asked  Corinna, 
with  a  calm  glance. 

"  You  and  I — alone — the  proprieties "  he  stam- 
mered. 

Again  Corinna  burst  out  laughing.  "  Is  that  what's 
worrying  you.  My  poor  Martin,  you're  too  comic. 
What  are  you  afraid  of  ?  I  promise  you  I'll  respect 
maiden  modesty.     My  word  of  honour." 

"  It  is  entirely  on  your  account.  But  if  you  don't 
mind "  said  Martin  politely. 

*  I  assure  you  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  replied 
Corinna  with  equal  poHteness.  "  But  supposing,"  she 
turned  to  Fortinbras,  "we  do  go  on  this  journey, 
what  should  we  do  when  we  got  to  the  great  Monsieur 
Bigourdin  ?  " 

"  You  would  sun  yourselves  in  his  wisdom,"  replied 
Fortinbras,  "  and  convey  my  love  to  my  Httle  daughter 
Felise." 

If  Fortinbras  had  alluded  to  his  possession  of  a 
steam    yacht    Corinna    could    not    have    been    more 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEx\R  33 

astonished.  To  her  he  was  merely  the  Marchand  de 
Bonheur,  eccentric  Bohemian,  half  charlatan,  half 
good  fellow,  without  private  hfe  or  kindred.  She  sat 
bolt  upright.   " 

"  You  have  a  daughter  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Am  I  not  a  man  ?  Haven't  I  lived 
my  life  ?  Haven't  I  had  my  share  of  its  joys  and 
sorrows  ?  Why  should  it  surprise  you  that  I  have  a 
daughter  ?  " 

Corinna  reddened.  "  You  haven't  told  me  about 
her  before." 

"  WTien  do  I  have  the  occasion,  in  this  world  of 
students,  to  speak  of  things  precious  to  me  ?  I  tell 
you  now.  I  am  sending  you  to  her — she  is  twenty — 
and  to  my  excellent  brother-in-law  Bigourdin,  because 
I  think  you  are  good  children,  and  I  should  hke  to 
give  you  a  bit  of  my  heart  for  my  ten  francs." 

"  Fortinbras,"  said  Corinna,  with  a  quick  outstretch 
of  her  arm,  "  Fm  a  beast.     Tell  me,  what  is  she  like  ?  " 

"  To  me,"  smiled  Fortinbras,  "  she  is  like  one  of  the 
wild  flowers  from  which  Alpine  honey  is  made.  To 
other  people  she  is  doubtless  a  well-mannered  common- 
place young  person.  You  will  see  her  and  judge  for 
yourselves." 

"  How  far  is  it' from  Paris  to  Brantome  ?  "  asked 
Martin. 

"  Roughly  about  five  hundred  kilometres — under 
three  hundred  miles.  Take  your  time.  You  have 
sixty  pounds'  v/orth  of  sunny  hours  before  you — 
and  there  is  much  to  be  learned  in  three  hundred  miles 
of  France.  In  a  few  weeks'  time  I  will  join  you  at 
Brantome — journeying  by  train  as  befits  my  soberer 
age  ;  I  go  there  a  certain  number  of  times  a  year 
to  see  Felise.  Then,  if  you  will  continue  to  favour  me  with 
your  patronage,  we  shall  have  another  consultation." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Fortinbras  looked  from 
one  young  face  to  the  other.     Then  he  brought  his 

hands  down  with  a  soft  thump  on  the  table 

c 


34  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  You  hesitate  ?  "  he  cried  indignantly.  "  You're 
afraid  to  take  your  poor  httle  hves  in  your  hands 
even  for  a  few  weeks  ?  "  He  pushed  back  his  chair,  and 
rose  and  swept  a  banning  gesture.  "  I  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  you.  For  profitless  advice  my 
conscience  allows  me  to  charge  nothing."  He  tore 
open  his  frock-coat,  and  his  fingers  diving  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket  brought  forth  and  threw  down  the 
two  five-franc  pieces.     "  Go  your  ways,"  said  he. 

At  this  dramatic  moment  both  the  young  people 
sprang  protesting  to  their  feet. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  W^e're  going  to 
Brantome,"  cried  Corinna,  gripping  the  lapels  of  his 
coat. 

"  Of  course  we  are,"  exclaimed  Martin,  scared  at  the 
prospect  of  losing  the  inspired  counsellor. 

"  Then  why  aren't  you  more  enthusiastic  ?  "  asked 
Fortinbras. 

"  But  we  are  enthusiastic,"  Corinna  declared. 

"  We'll  start  to-morrow,"  said  Martin. 

"  At  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  said  Corinna. 

"  At  five,  if  you  like,"  said  Martin. 

Fortinbras  embraced  them  both  in  a  capacious 
smile,  as  he  deliberately  repocketed  the  coins. 

"  That  is  well,  my  children.  But  don't  do  too  many 
unaccustomed  things  at  once.  In  the  Dordogne  you 
can  rise  at  five — with  enjoyment  and  impunity.  In 
Paris,  your  meeting  at  that  hour  would  be  frauglit 
with  mutual  antipathy,  and  you  would  not  find  a  shop 
open  where  you  could  hire  or  buy  your  bicycles." 

"  I've  got  one,"  said  Corinna. 

"  So  have  I,"  said  Martin":    "  but  it's  in  London." 

Fortinbras  e.^tracted  from  his  person  a  dim,  chainless 
watch.  ^ 

"  It  is  now  a  quarter  past  one.  Time  for  honest  folk 
to  be  abed.  Meet  me  here  at  eleven  o'clock  to- 
morrow, booted  and  spurred,  with  but  a  scrip  at  the 
back  of  your  Dicycles,  and  I  will  hand  you  letters  to 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  35 

F^lise  and  the  poetic  and  philosophic  Bigourdin,  and 
now,"  said  he,  "  with  your  permission,  I  will  ring  for 
Auguste." 

Auguste  appeared,  and  ]\Iartin,  waving  aside  the 
protests  of  Corinna,  paid  the  modest  bill.  In  the 
airless  street  Fortinbras  bade  them  an  impressive  good 
night,  and  disappeared  in  the  byways  of  the  sultry 
city.  Martin  accompanied  Corinna  to  the  gaunt 
neighbouring  building  wherein  her  eyrie  was  situate. 
Both  were  tongue-tied,  shy,  embarrassed  by  the  prospect 
of  the  intimate  adventure  to  which  they  had  pledged 
themselves.  When  the  great  door,  swung  open  by  the 
hidden  concierge  at  Corinna's  ring,  invited  her  entrance, 
they  shook  hands  perfunctorily. 

"  At  a  quarter  to  eleven,"  said  Martin. 

"  I  shall  be  ready,"  said  Corinna. 


CHAPTER  III 

The  bicycle  journey  of  two  young  people  through  a 
mere  three  hundred  miles  of  France  is,  on  the  face  of 
it,  an  Odyssey  of  no  importance.  The  only  interest 
that  could  attach  itself  to  such  a  humdrum  affair  would 
centre  in  the  development  of  tender  feelings  recipro- 
cated or  otherwise  in  the  breasts  of  both -or  one  of  the 
young  people.  But  when  the  two  of  them  proceed 
dustily  and  unemotionally  along  the  endless,  straight, 
poplar-bordered  roads,  with  the  heart  of  each  at  the 
end  of  the  day  as  untroubled  by  the  other  as  at  the 
beginning,  a  detailed  account  of  their  wanderings 
would  resolve  itself  into  a  commonplace  itinerary. 

"  My  children,"  said  Fortinbras,  when,  after  having 
lunched  with  them  at  the  Petit  Cornichon  and  given 
them  letters  of  introduction  and  his  blessing,  he  had 
accompanied  them  to  the  pavement  whence  they  were 
preparing  to  start,  "  I  advise  you,  until  you  reach 
Brantome,  to  call  yourselves  brother  and  sister,  so  that 
your  idjdlic  companionship  shall  not  be  misinterpreted." 

"  Pooh  !  " — or  some  such  vocable  of  scorn — Corinna 
remarked.     "  We're  not  in  narrow-minded  England." 

"  In  narrow-minded  England,"  Fortinbras  replied, 
"  without  a  wedding  ring,  and  without  the  confessed 
brother-and-sisterly  relation,  inns  would  close  their 
virtuous  doors  against  you.  In  France,  where  a  pair 
of  lovers  is  universally  regarded  as  an  object  of  romantic 
interest,  innkeepers  would  confuse  you  with  zealous 
attentions.  Thus  in  either  country,  though  for  oppo- 
site reasons,  you  would  be  bound  to  encounter 
impossible  embarrassment." 

36 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  37 

"  1  don't  think  there  would  be  any  danger  of  that," 
laughed  Corinna  lightly,  "  unless  Martin  went  mad. 
But  perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  play  the 
comedy.  I'll  stick  up  my  cheek  to  be  kissed  every 
night  in  the  presence  of  the  landlady.  '  Bon  soir, 
mon  frere.'  Do  you  think  you  can  go  through  the 
performance,  Martin  ?  " 

Martin,  very  uncomfortable,  already  experiencing  at 
the  suggestion  of  misconstrued  relations  the  embarrass- 
ment foreshadowed  by  Fortinbras,  flushed  deeply,  and 
took  refuge  in  an  examination  of  his  bicycle.  The 
celibate  dreamer  was  shocked  by  her  cool  bravado. 
Since  the  episode  of  Gwendoline  he  had  lived  remote 
from  the  opposite  sex  ;  the  only  woman  he  had  known 
intimately  was  his  own  mother,  and  from  that  know- 
ledge he  had  formed  the  profound  conviction  that 
women  were  entirely  futile  and  utterly  holy.  Corinna 
kept  on  knocking  this  conviction  endwise.  She  made 
hay,  not  to  say  chaos,  with  his  theory  of  woman.  He 
felt  himself  on  the  verge  of  a  fog-filled  abysm  of 
knowledge.  There  she  stood,  a  foot  or  two  away — he 
scarce  dared  glance  at  her — erect,  clear-eyed,  the  least 
futile  person  in  the  world,  treating  a  suggestion  the 
most  disconcerting  and  appalling  to  maidenhood  with 
the  unholiest  mockery,  and  coolly  proposing  that,  in 
order  to  give  themselves  an  air  of  innocence,  they 
should  contract  the  habit  of  a  nightly  embrace. 

"  I'll  do  anything,"  said  he,  "  to  prevent  disagree- 
ableness  arising." 

Corinna  laughed,  and,  after  final  farewells,  they  rode 
away  down  the  baking  httle  street,  leaving  Fortinbras 
watching  them  wistfully  until  they  had  disappeared. 
And  he  remained  a  long  time  following  in  his  thoughts 
the  pair  whom  he  had  dispatched  upon  their  unsenti- 
mental journey.  How  young  they  were,  how  malleable, 
how  agape  for  hope  like  young  thrushes  for  worms, 
how  attractive  in  their  respective  ways,  how  careless 
of  sunstroke  !     If  only  he  could  have  escaped  with 


38  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

them  from  this  sweltering  Paris  to  the  cool  shadow  of 
the  Dordogne  rocks  and  the  welcome  of  a  young  girl's 
eyes !  What  a  hopeless  mess  and  muddle  was  life.  He 
sighed  and  mopped  his  forehead,  and  then  a  hand 
touched  his  arm.  He  turned  and  saw  the  care-worn 
face  of  Madame  Gaussart,  the  fat  wife  of  a  neighbouring 
print-seller. 

"  Monsieur  Fortinbras,  it  is  only  j^ou  in  this  city  of 
misfortune  that  can  give  me  advice.  My  husband  left 
me  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  has  not  returned. 
I  am  in  despair.  I  have  been  weeping  ever  since.  I 
weep  now — "  She  did,  copiously,  regardless  of  the  gaze 
of  the  street.  "  Tell  me  what  to  do,  my  good  Monsieur 
Fortinbras,  you  whom  they  call  the  Marchaiid  de 
Bonheur.     See — I  have  your  little  honorarium." 

She  held  out  the  five-franc  piece.  Fortinbras 
slipped  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"  At  your  service,  madame,"  said  he  with  a  sigh. 
*'  Doubtless  I  shall  be  able  to  restore  to  you  a  fallacious 
semblance  of  conjugal  felicity." 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  said  the  lady,  already  comforted. 
"  If  you  would  deign  to  enter  the  shop,  monsieur." 

Fortinbras  followed  her,  and  for  a  while  lost  his  envy 
of  Martin  and  Corinna  in  patient  and  ironic  considera- 
tion of  the  naughtiness  of  Monsieur  Gaussart. 

This  first  stage  out  of  Paris  was  the  only  time  when 
the  wanderers  braved  the  midday  heat  of  the  golden 
August.  They  took  counsel  together  in  an  earwiggy 
arbour  outside  Versailles,  where  they  quenched  their 
thirst  with  cider.  They  were  in  no  hurry  to  reach  their 
destination.  A  few  hours  in  the  early  morning — 
they  could  start  at  six — and  an  hour  or  two  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening  would  suffice.  The  remainder  of  the 
day  would  be  devoted  to  repose.  .  .  . 

"  And  churches  and  cathedrals,"  added  Martin. 

"  You  have  a  froHcsome  idea  of  a  holiday  jaunt," 
said  Corinna. 

"  Vvhat  else  can  we  do  ? 


i> 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  39 

"  Eat  lotus,"  said  Corinna.  "  Forget  that  there 
ever  were  such  places  as  Paris  or  London  or  Wendle- 
bur}-'." 

"  I  don't  think  Chartres  would  remind  you  of  one 
of  them,"  said  Martin.  "  I've  dreamed  of  Chartres 
ever  since  I  read  La  Cathedrale,  by  Huysmans." 

"  You're  what  they  call  an  earnest  soul,"  remarked 
Corinna.  "  All  the  way  here  I've  never  stopped 
wondering  why  I've  come  with  you  on  this  insane 
pilgrimage  to  nowhere." 

"I've  been  wondering  the  same  myself,"  said 
Martin. 

As  he  had  lain  awake  most  of  the  night,  and  therefore 
risen  late,  the  occupations  of  the  morning  involving 
the  selection  and  hire  of  a  bicycle,  consultation  with 
the  concierge  of  the  Hotel  du  Soleil  et  de  I'Ecosse  with 
regard  to  luggage  being  forwarded,  the  changing  of  his 
money  into  French  banknotes  and  gold,  and  various 
small  purchases,  had  left  him  little  time  for  reflection. 
It  was  -only  when  he  found  himself  pedalling  perspir- 
ingly  by  the  side  of  this  comparatively  unknown  and 
startling  young  woman,  who  was  to  be  his  intimate 
companion  for  heaven  knew  how  long,  that  he  began 
to  think.  Qu'allaii-il  faire  dans  cette  galere  ?  It  was 
comforting  to  know  that  Corinna  asked  herself  the 
same  question. 

"  That  old  humbug  Fortinbras  must  have  put  a  spell 
upon  us,"  she  continued,  without  commenting  on 
Martin's  lack  of  gallantry.  "  He  sort  of  envelops  one 
in  such  a  mist  of  words  uttered  in  that  musical  voice 
of  his,  and  he  looks  so  inspired  with  benevolent  wisdom, 
that  one  loses  one's  common  sense.  The  old  wretch 
can  persuade  anybody  to  do  an3/thing.  He  once  in- 
veigled a  girl — an  art  student — into  becoming  a  nun." 

Martin's  Protestant  antagonism  was  aroused.  He 
expressed  himself  heatedly.  He  saw  nothing  but 
reprehensibihty  in  the  action  of  Fortinbras.  Corinna 
examined  her  well-trimmed  finger-nails. 


40  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  It  was  a  question  of  Saint  Clothilde — that,  I  think, 
was  the  order — or  Saint  Lazare.  Some  girls  are  like 
that." 

"  Saint  Lazare  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  anything  ?  "  she  sighed.  "  What's 
the  good  of  being  decently  epigrammatic  ?  Saint 
Lazare  is  the  final  destination  of  a  certain  temperament 
unsupported  by  good  looks  or  money.  It's  the  woman's 
prison  of  Paris." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Martin. 

"  How  he  did  it  I  don't  know,  but  he  saved  her 
body  and  soul.  And  now  she's  the  happiest  creature 
in  the  world.  I  had  a  letter  from  her  only  the  other 
day  urging  me  to  go  over  to  Rome  and  take  the 
vows " 

"  I  hope  you're  not  thinking  of  it,"  said  Martin. 

"  I'm  in  no  danger  of  Saint  Lazare,"  replied  Corinna 
dryly. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  In  the  leafy  arbour, 
screened  from  the  dust  and  glare  of  the  highway,  there 
prevailed  a  drowsy  peace.  Only  one  of  the  dozen 
other  green  blistered  wooden  tables  was  occupied — 
and  that  by  a  blue-bloused  workman  and  his  wife  and 
baby,  all  temperately  refreshing  themselves  with  harm- 
less hquid,  the  last  from  nature's  fount  itself.  T]]e 
landlord,  obese,  unshaven,  and  alpaca-jacketed,  read 
the  Petit  Journal  at  the  threshold  of  the  cafe  of  which 
the  arboured  terrace  was  but  a  summer  adjunct.  A 
mangy  mongrel  lying  at  his  feet  snapped  spasmodically 
at  flies.  A  couple  of  tow-headed  urchins  hung  by  the 
arched  entrance,  low-class  Peris  at  the  gates  of  a 
dilapidated  Paradise. 

"  Who  is  Fortinbras  ?  "  Martin  asked. 

Corinna  shrugged  her  dainty  shoulders.  She  did  not 
know.  Rumour  had  it — and  for  rumour  she  could  not 
vouchsafe — that  he  was  an  English  solicitor  struck  off 
the  rolls.  With  French  law  at  any  rate  he  was  famihar. 
He  had  the  Code  Napoleon  at  his  finger-ends.     In  spite 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  41 

of  the  sober  black  clothes  and  white  tie  of  the  French 
attorney  which  he  affected,  he  certainly  possessed  no 
French  qualifications  which  would  have  enabled  him 
to  set  up  a  regular  cabinet  d'avoiie  and  earn  a  pro- 
fessional livelihood.  Nor  did  he  presume  to  step 
within  the  avoues  jealously  guarded  sphere.  But  his 
opinion  on  legal  points  was  so  sound,  and  his  fee  so 
moderate,  that  many  consulted  him  in  preference  to 
an  orthodox  practitioner.  That  was  all  that  Corinna 
knew  of  him  in  his  legal  aspect.  The  rest  of  his  queer 
practice  consisted  in  advising  in  all  manner  of  compH- 
cations.  He  arbitrated  in  disputes  between  man  and 
man,  v/oman  and  woman,  lover  and  mistress,  husband 
and  wife,  parent  and  child.  He  diverted  the  debtor 
from  the  path  to  bankruptcy.  He  rescued  youths  and 
maidens  from  disastrous  nymphs  and  fauns.  He  hushed 
up  scandal.  Meanwhile  his  private  hfe  and  even  his 
address  remained  unknown.  Twice  a  day  he  went  the 
round  of  the  cafes  and  restaurants  of  the  Quartier,  so 
that  those  in  need  of  his  assistance  had  but  to  wait 
at  their  respective  taverns  in  order  to  see  him — for  he 
appeared  with  the  inevitability  of  the  sun  in  its  course. 

"  There  are  all  kinds  of  parasitical  people,"  said 
Corinna,  "  who  try  to  sponge  on  students  for  drinks 
and  meals  and  money — but  Fortinbras  isn't  that  kind. 
Now  and  again,  but  not  often,  he  will  accept  an 
invitation  to  lunch  or  dinner — and  then  it's  always  for 
the  purpose  of  discussing  business.  Whether  it's  his 
cunning  or  his  honesty  I  don't  know — but  nobody's 
afraid  of  him.  That's  his  great  asset.  You're  abso- 
lutely certain  sure  that  he  won't  stick  you  for  anything. 
Consequently  anybody  in  trouble  or  difficulty  goes  to 
him  confident  that  his  five-franc  consultation  fee  is 
the  end  of  the  financial  side  of  the  matter,  and  that  he 
M'ill  concentrate  his  whole  mind  and  soul  on  the  case. 
He's  an  odd  devil." 

"  The  most  remarkable  man  I've  ever  met,"  said 
Martin. 


42  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  You've  not  met  many,"  said  Corinna. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Martin  reflectively.  "  I 
once  came  across  a  prize-fighter — a  remarkable  chap — 
in  the  bar-pa.rlour  of  the  pub.  at  the  corner  of  our  street 
who  was-  afterwards  hanged  for  murdering  his  v/ife, 
and  I  once  met  a  member  of  Parliament,  another  re- 
markable man — I  forget  his  name  now — and  tlien,  of 
course,  there  was  Cyrus  Margett." 

"  But  none  of  them  is  in  it  with  Fortinbras  ?  " 
Corinna  smiled  with  ironic  indulgence. 

"  None,"  said  Martin,  "  had  his  peculiar  magnetic 
quality.  Not  even  the  member  of  Parliament.  But," 
he  continued  after  a  pause,  "  is  that  ail  that  is 
known  of  him  ?     He  seems  to  be  a  very  mysterious 


person. 


I  shouldn't  mind  betting  3^ou,"  said  Corinna,  "  that 
you  and  I  are  the  only  people  in  Paris  who  are  aware 
of  his  daughter  in  Brantome." 

"  Why  should  he  single  us  out  for  such  a  confidence  ?  " 
asked  Martin.  "  He  said  last  night  that  he  was  giving 
us  a  bit  of  his  heart  because  we  were  good  children — 
it  was  quite  touching — but  why  should  we  be  the  only 
ones  to  have  a  bit  of  his  heart  ?  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  ?  "  asked  Corinna,  meeting 
his  e^'es  full. 

"  I  should." 

"  He  told  me,  before  you  turned  up  at  the  Petit 
Cornichon  this  morning,  that  you  interested  him  as  a 
sort  of  celestial  freak." 

"I'm  not  sure  whether  to  take  that  as  a  compliment 
or  not,"  replied  Martin,  pausing  in  the  act  of  rolling  a 
cigarette.  "  It's  tantamount  to  calling  m.e.an  infernal 
ass." 

At  this  show  of  spirit  the  girl  swiftly  changed  her 
lone. 

"  You  may  take  it  from  me  that  Fortinbras  doesn't 
give  a  bit  of  his  heart  to  infernal  asses.  If  I  had  gone 
to  him,  on  my  own,  he  Vv^ould  never — you  heard  him — 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  43 

he  would  never  have  touched  on  '  things  precious  to 
him.'     It's  for  your  sake,  not  mine." 

"  But  why  ?  '' 

"  Because  he's  fed  up  with  the  hkes  of  me,"  said 
Corinna  with  sudden  bitterness.  "  There  are  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  us." 

Martin  knitted  his  brow.     "  I  don't  understand." 

"  Better  not  try,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  pay  for  the 
cider  and  get  on." 

So  they  paid  and  went  on,  and  halted  at  the  townlet 
of  Rambouillet,  where,  as  Monsieur  and  Mademoiselle 
Overshaw,  they  engaged  rooms  at  the  m.ost  modest  of 
terms.  And  to  Martin's  infinite  relief  Corinna  did  not 
summon  him  to  kiss  her  cheek  in  the  presence  of  the 
landlady  before  they  retired  for  the  night.  He  went 
to  bed  comforted  by  the  thought  that  Corinna's  bark 
was  worse  than  her  bite. 

I  have  done  my  best  to  tell  you  that  this  was  an 
unsentimental  journey. 

So  day  after  day  they  sped  their  innocent  course, 
resting  by  night  at  tiny  places  where  haughty  auto- 
m.obiles  halted  not.  They  had  but  sixty  pounds  to 
their  joint  fortune,  and  it  behoved  them  not  to  dissipate 
it  in  unvv-onted  luxury.  Through  Chartres  they  went, 
and  Corinna  quite  as  eagerly  as  Martin  drank  in  deep 
draughts  of  its  Gothic  mystery  and  its  splendour  of 
stained  glass  ;  through  Chateaudun  with  its  grim  old 
castle  ;  through  Vendome  with  the  flaming  west  front 
of  its  cathedral ;  through  Tours,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  which  the}^  hngered  many  daj^s,  seeing  in  familiar 
intimacy  things  of  which  they  had  but  dreamed 
before — Chinon,  Loches,  Chenonceaux,  As^ay-le-Rideau, 
perhaps  the  most  delicate  of  all  the  chateaux  of  the 
Loire.  And  following  the  counsel  of  a  sage  Fortinbras 
they  went  but  a  few  kilometres  out  of  their  way  and 
visited  Richelieu,  the  fascinating  town  known  only  to 
the  wanderer,  himself  judicious  or  judiciously  advised, 
that  was  built  by  the  great  Cardinal  outside  his  palace 


44  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

gates  for  the  accommodation  of  his  court ;  and  there 
it  remains  now,  untouched  by  time,  priceless  jewel  of 
the  art  of  Louis  Treize,  with  its  walls  and  gates  and 
church  and  market  square  and  stately  central  thorough- 
fare of  hotels  for  the  nobles,  each  having  its  mansard 
roof  and  porta  cochere  giving  entrance  to  court  and 
garden  ;  and  there  it  remains  dozing  in  prosperity,  for 
around  it  spread  the  vineyards  which  supply  brandy 
to  the  wide,  wide  world. 

It  was  here  that  Martin,  sitting  with  Corinna  on  a 
blistered  bench  beneath  a  plane-tree  in  the  little 
market-place,  said  tor  the  first  time  : 

"  1  don't  seem  to  care  whether  I  ever  see  England 
again." 

"  What  about  getting  another  billet  ?  "  asked 
Corinna. 

"  England  and  billets  are  synonymous  terms.  The 
farther  I  go  the  less  important  does  it  appear  that  I 
should  get  one.  At  any  rate  the  more  loathsome  is 
the  prospect  of  a  return  to  slavery." 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it,"  she  said,  fanning  herself 
with  her  hat.  "  The  mere  thought  of  going  back 
turns  the  sun  grey.  Let  us  imagme  we're  just  going 
on  and  on  for  ever  and  ever." 

"  I've  been  doing  so  in  a  general  way,"  he  replied. 
"  I've  been  living  in  a  sort  of  intoxication  ;  but  now 
and  then  I  wake  up  and  have  a  lucid  interval.  And 
then  I  feel  that  by  not  sitting  on  the  doorstep  of 
scholastic  agents  I'm  doing  something  wrong,  some- 
thing almost  immoral — and  it  gives  me  an  unholy 
thrill  of  delight." 

"  When  I  was  a  small  child,"  said  Corinna,  "  I  used 
to  take  the  Ten  Commandments  one  by  one  and 
secretly  break  them,  just  to  see  what  would  happen. 
Some  I  didn't  know  how  to  break — the  seventh  for 
instance,  which  worried  me — and  others  referring  to 
stealing  and  murder  were  rather  too  stiff  propositions. 
But  I  chipped  out  with  a  nail  on  a  tile  a  Httle  graven 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  45 

image,  and  I  bowed  down  and  worshipped  it  in  great 
excitement  ;  and  as  father  used  to  tell  us  that  the 
third  commandment  included  all  kinds  of  swearing,  I 
used  to  bend  over  an  old  well  we  had  in  the  garden 
and  whisper,  '  Damn,  damn,  damn,  damn,  damn,'  until 
the  awful  joy  of  it  made  my  flesh  creep.  I  think, 
Martin,  you  can't  be  more  than  ten  years  old." 

"  Why  do  you  spoil  a  bit  of  sympathetic  compre- 
hension by  that  last  remark  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why  do  yoa  jib  at  truth  ?  "  she  retorted. 

"  Truth  ?  " 

"  Aren't  you  like  a  child  revelling  in  naughtiness — 
naughtiness  just  for  the  sake  of  being  naughty." 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  said  he.  "  But  why  do  you  mock 
at  me  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  mocking,"  she  answered  more 
seriously.  "  When  I  said  you  were  only  ten  years  old 
I  meant  to  be  rather  affectionate.  I  seem  to  be  ever 
so  old  in  experience  and  you  never  to  have  grown  up. 
You're  so  refreshing  after  all  these  people  I've  been 
mixed  up  with — mostly  lots  j^ounger  really  than  you — 
who  have  plumbed  the  depths  of  human  knowledge, 
and  have  fished  up  the  dregs,  and,  holding  them  out  in 
their  hands,  say,  '  See  what  it  all  comes  to ! '  I'm  dead 
sick  of  them.  So  to  consort,  as  I've  been  doing,  with 
an  ingenuous  mind  like  yours  is  a  real  pleasure." 

Martin  rose  from  his  seat,  and  a  tortoise-shell  cat,  the 
only  other  denizen  of  the  market-place,  startled  from 
intimate  ablutions,  gazed  at  him,  still  poising  a  forward 
thrown  hind  leg. 

"  My  dear  Corinna,"  said  he,  "I  would  beg  you  to 
believe  that  I'm  not  so  damned  ingenuous  as  all  that !  " 

For  reply  Corinna  laughed  out  loud,  whereupon  the 
cat  fled.     She  rose  too. 

"  Let  us  look  at  the  church  and  cool  this  heat  ot 
controversy." 

So  they  visited  the  Louis  XIII  church  and  con- 
tinued their  journey.     And  the  idle  days  passed,  and 


46  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

nothing  happened  of  any  importance.  They  talked  a 
vast  deal,  and  now  and  then  wrangled.  After  his 
sturdy  declaration  at  Richelieu,  Martin  resented  her 
gibes  at  his  ingenuousness.  He  felt  that  it  was  incumr 
bent  on  him  to  play  the  man.  At  first  Corinna  had 
taken  command  of  their  tour,  ordaining  routes  and 
making  contracts  with  innkeepers.  These  functions  he 
now  usurped  ;  the  former  to  advantage,  for  he  dis- 
covered that  Corinna's  splendid  misreading  of  maps 
had  led  them  devious  and  unprofitable  courses  ;  the 
latter  to  the  disgusted  remonstrance  of  Corinna,  who 
found  the  charges  preposterously  increased. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Martin.  "  I  don't  mind  your 
treating  me  as  a  brother,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be 
treated  as  your  little  brother." 

In  the  freedom  and  adventure  of  their  unremarkable 
pilgrimage  he  had  begun  to  develop,  to  lose  the  fear 
of  her  ironical  tongue,  to  crave  some  sort  of  self- 
assertion,  if  not  of  self-expression.  He  also  discovered 
in  her  certain  little  feminine  frailties  which  flatteringly 
aroused  his  masculine  sense  of  superiority.  Once  they 
were  overtaken  by  a  thunderstorm,  and  in  the  cowshed 
to  which  they  had  raced  for  shelter  she  sat  fear- 
stricken,  holding  hands  to  ears  at  every  clap,  while 
Martin,  hands  in  pockets,  stood  serene  at  the  doorway 
interested  in  the  play  of  the  lightning.  What  was 
there  to  be  afraid  of  ?  Far  more  dangerous  to  cross 
London  or  Paris  streets  or  to  take  a  railway  journey. 
Her  unreasoning  terror  was  woman's  weakness,  a  mere 
m.atter  of  nerves.  He  would  be  indulgent  ;  so  turning 
from  the  door  he  put  his  waterproof  cape  over  her 
shoulders  as  she  was  feeling  cold,  and  the  humility 
with  which  she  accepted  his  services  afforded  him 
considerable  gratification.  Of  course,  when  the  sun 
came  out,  she  carried  her  head  high,  and  soon  found 
occasion  for  a  gibe  ;  but  Martin  rode  on  unheeding. 
These  were  situations  in  which  he  was  master. 

Once,    also,    in   order   to   avoid   a   drove    of  steers 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  47 

emerging  from  a  farmyard  gate,  she  had  swerved 
violently  into  a  ditch  and  twisted  her  ankle.  As  she 
could  neither  walk  nor  ride,  he  picked  her  up  in  his 
arms. 

"  I'll  take  you  to  the  farm-house." 

"'  You  can't  possibly  carry  me,"  she  protested. 

"  I'll  soon  show  you,"  said  Martin,  and  he  carried 
her.  And  although  she  was  none  too  light,  and  his 
muscles  strained  beneath  her  weight,  he  rejoiced  in  her 
surprised  appreciation  of  his  man's  strength. 

But  half-way  she  railed,  white-lipped  :  "  I  suppose 
you're  quite  certain  now  you're  my  big  brother." 

"  Perfectly  certain,"  said  Martin. 

And  then  he  felt  her  grip  around  his  neck  relax,  and 
her  body  weigh  dead  in  his  arms,  and  he  saw  that  she 
had  fainted  from  the  pain. 

Leaving  her  in  the  care  of  the  kind  farm  people,  he 
went  to  retrieve  the  abandoned  bicycles,  and  reflected 
on  the  occurrence.  In  the  first  place,  he  would  not 
have  lost  his  head  on  encountering  a  set  of  harmless 
steers ;  secondly,  had  he  accidentally  twisted  his 
ankle,  Corinna  could  not  have  carried  him  ;  thirdly, 
he  would  not  have  fainted  ;  fourthly,  mocking  as  her 
last  words  had  been,  she  had  confessed  her  inferiority  ; 
all  of  which  was  most  comforting  to  his  self-esteem. 

Then,  some  time  afterwards,  when  the  farmer  put 
her  into  a  broken-down  equipage  covered  with  a  vast 
hood  and  drav»'n  by  a  gaunt  horse,  rustily  caparisoned, 
in  order  to  drive  her  to  the  nearest  inn  some  five 
kilometres  distant,  Martin  superintended  the  arrange- 
ments, leaving  Corinna  not  a  word  to  say.  He  rode, 
a  mounted  constable,  by  her  side,  and  on  arriving  at 
the  inn  carried  her  'ip  to  her  room,  and  talked  with 
much  authority. 

Then,  having  passed  through  Poitiers  and  Ruffec, 
they  came,  three  weeks  after  their  start  from  Paris,  to 
Angouleme,  daintiest  of  cities,  perched  on  its  bastioned 
rocks  above  the  Charente.     And  here,  as  it  was  the 


48  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

penultimate  stage  of  their  journey,  they  sojourned  a 
few  days. 

They  stood  on  the  shady  rampart  and  gazed  over 
the  red-roofed  houses  embowered  in  greenery  at  the 
great  plain  golden  in  harvest  and  drenched  in  sunshine, 
and  sighed. 

"  I  dread  Brantome,"  said  Corinna.  "  It  marks 
something  definite.  Hitherto  we  have  been  going 
along  vaguely,  in  a  sort  of  stupefied  dream.  At 
Brantome  we'll  have  to  think." 

"  I've  no  doubt  it  will  do  us  good,"  said  Martin. 

"  I  fail  to  see  it,"  said  Corinna.  "  We'll  just  have 
the  same  old  worry  over  again." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  Martin  answered.  "  In  the  first 
place  we're  not  quite  the  same  people  as  we  were  three 
weeks  ago " 

"  Rubbish,"  said  Corinna. 

"  I'm  not  the  same  person  at  any  rate." 

She  laughed.  "  Because  you  give  yourself  airs 
nowadays  ?  " 

"  Even  my  giving  myself  airs,"  he  replied  soberly, 
"  denotes  a  change.  But  it's  deeper  than  that — it's 
difficult  to  explain.  I  feel  I  have  a  grip  on  myself  I 
hadn't  before — and  also  an  intensity  of  delight  in 
things  I  never  had  before.  The  first  half-hour  or  so 
of  our  rides  in  the  early  dewy  mornings,  our  rough 
dejeuners  outside  the  little  cafes,  the  long,  drowsy 
afternoons  under  the  trees  watching  the  lazy  life  of 
the  road — the  wine  wagons  and  the  bullock-carts  and 
the  sunburnt  men  and  women — and  the  brown  dusty 
children  with  their  goats — and  the  quiet  evenings 
under  the  stars  when  we  have  either  sat  alone  saying 
nothing  or  else  talked  to  the  patron  of  the  auherge, 
and  listened  to  his  simple  philosophy  of  life.  And 
then  to  sleep,  drunk  with  air  and  sunshine,  between  the 
clean  coarse  sheets — to  sleep  Hke  a  dog  until  the 
scurry  of  the  house  wakes  you  at  dawn — I  don't 
know,"  he  fetched  up  lamely.     "  It  has  been  a  thriU, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  49 

morning,  noon,  and  night — and  my  life  before  this  was 
remarkably  devoid  of  thrills.  Of  course,"  he  added 
after  a  slight  pause,  "  you  have  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  it." 

"  Je  te  remercie  infiniment,  mon  frere,"  said  Corinna. 
"  That  is  as  much  as  to  say  I've  not  been  a  too  dull 
companion." 

"  You've  been  a  delightful  companion,"   he  cried 

boyishly.     "  I  had  no  idea  a  girl  could  be  so — so " 

He  sought  for  a  word  with  his  fingers. 

Her  eyes  smiled  on  him,  and  Ups  showed  ever  so 
delicate  a  curl  of  irony. 

"  So  what  ?  " 

"  So  companionable,"  said  he. 

She  laughed  again.  "  What  exactly  do  you  mean 
by  that  ?  " 

"  So  sensible,"  said  Martin, 

"  When  a  man  calls  a  girl  sensible,  do  you  know 
what  he  means  ?  He  means  that  she  doesn't  expect 
him  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  Now  you  haven't  fallen 
in  love  with  me,  have  you  ?  " 

Martin,  from  his  loUing  position  on  the  parapet,  sprang 
erect.     "  I  should  never  dream  of  such  a  thing  !  " 

She  laughed  loud,  and  grasped  the  lapels  of  his  jacket. 
"  Oh,  Martin  !  "  she  cried,  "  you're  a  gem,  a  rare 
jewel.  You  haven't  changed  one  little  bit.  And,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  change." 

"  If  you  mean  that  I  haven't  turned  from  a  gentle- 
man into  a  cad,  then  I  haven't  changed,"  said  Martin, 
freeing  himself,  "  and  I'm  glad  of  it." 

She  tossed  her  head  and  the  laughter  died  from  her 
face.  "  I  don't  see  how  you  would  be  a  cad  to  have 
fallen  in  love  with  a  girl  who  is  neither  unattractive 
nor  a  fool,  and  has  been  your  sole  companion  from 
morning  to  night  for  three  weeks.  Ninety-nine  men 
out  of  a  hundred  would  have  done  it." 

"  I  don't  beheve  it,"  said  Martin.  "  I  have  a  higher 
estimate  of  the  honour  of  my  fellow-men." 


50  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  If  that's  your   opinion  of  me "  she  said,  and 

turning  swiftly  wallced  away.     Martin  overtook  her. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  fall  in  love  wnth  you  ?  "  he 
asked. 

She  halted  for  a  second  and  stamped  her  foot.  "  No. 
Ten  thousand  times  no.  If  you  did  I'd  throw  vitriol 
over  you." 

She  marched  on.  Martin  followed  in  an  obfuscated 
frame  of  mind.  She  led  the  way  round  the  ramparts 
and  out  into  the  narrow  cobble-paved  streets  of  the 
old  to"WTi,  past  dilapidated  glories  of  the  Renaissance, 
where  once  great  nobles  had  entertained  kings,  and 
now  the  proletariat  hung  laundry  to  dry  over  royal 
salamanders  and  proud  escutcheons,  past  the  Maison 
de  Saint  Simon,  with  its  calm  and  time-mellowed 
ornament  and  exquisite  oriels,  past  things  over  which, 
but  yesterday,  but  that  morning,  they  had  lingered 
lovingly,  into  the  Place  du  Murier.  There  she  paused, 
as  if  seeking  her  bearings. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Martin,  somewhat 
breathlessly. 

"  To  some  place  where  I  can  be  alone,"  she  flashed. 

"  Very  well,"  said  he,  and  raised  his  cap  and  left  her. 

In  a  few  seconds  he  heard  her  call. 

"  Martin  !  " 

He  turned.     "  Yes  ?  " 

"  I'm  anything  you  Hke  to  call  me,"  she  said.  "  It's 
not  your  fault.  It's  my  temper.  But  3'ou've  got  to 
learn  it's  better  not  to  turn  women  down  fiat  like  that, 
even  when  they  speak  in  jest." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Corinna,"  he  said,  smiling  gravely, 
"  but  when  one  jests  on  such  subjects  I  don't  know 
where  I  am." 

They  crossed  the  square  slowly,  side  by  side. 

"  I  suppose  neither  you  nor  anybody  else  could 
understand,"  she  said.  "  I  was  angry  with  you,  but 
if  you  had  played  the  fool  I  should  have  been  angrier 
stiU." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  51 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  straight  ahead  with  a  strained  glance, 
and  for  a  minute  or  two  did  not  reply.     At  last  : 

"  You  remember  Fortinbras  mentioning  the  name  of 
Camille  Fargot." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Martin. 

"  That's  why,"  said  Corinna. 

"  Is  he  at  Brantome  ?  "  asked  Martin,  with  brow 
perplexed  by  the  memory  of  the  ridiculous  mother. 

"  No,  I  wish  to  God  he  was." 

"  Are  you  engaged  ?  " 

"  In  a  sort  of  a  way,"  said  Corinna,  gloomily. 

"  I  see,"  said  Martin. 

"  You  don't  see  a  little  bit  in  the  world,"  she 
retorted,  with  a  sudden  laugh.  "  You're  utterly 
mystified." 

"  I'm  not,"  he  declared  stoutly.  "  Why  on  earth 
shouldn't  you  have  a  love  affair  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  insinuated  that  none  of  your 
'  fellow-men  '  would  look  at  me  twice." 

He  contracted  his  brows  and  regarded  her  steadily. 
"  I'm  beginning  to  get  tired  of  this  argument,"  said  he. 

Her  eyes  drooped  first.  "  Perhaps  you  really  have 
progressed  a  bit  since  we  started." 

"  I  was  doing  my  best  to  teU  you,  when  you  switched 
off  on  to  this  idiot  circuit." 

Suddenly  she  put  out  her  hand.  "  Don't  let  us 
quarrel,  Martin.  What  has  been  joy  and  wonder  to 
you  has  been  merely  an  anodyne  to  me.  I'm  about 
the  most  miserable  girl  in  France." 

"  I  v>dsh  you  had  told  me  something  of  this  before," 
said  Martin,  "  because  I've  been  feehng  myself  the 
happiest  m.an.  . 


CHAPTER  IV 

"  There  is  six  o'clock  striking,  and  those  English  have 
not  yet  arrived." 

Thus  spake  Gaspard-Marie  Bigourdin,  landlord  of  the 
Hotel  des  Grottes,  a  vast  man  clad  in  a  brown  hoUand 
suit  and  a  soft  straw  hat  with  a  gigantic  brim.  So 
vast  was  he  that  his  person  overlapped  in  all  directions 
the  Austrian  bent-wood  rocking-chair  in  which  he  was 
taking  the  cool  of  the  evening. 

"  They  said  they  would  come  in  time  for  dinner, 
mon  onde,"  said  Felise. 

She  was  a  graceful  shp  of  a  girl,  dark-eyed,  refined 
of  feature.  Fortinbras  with  paternal  fondness,  if  you 
remember,  had  Ukened  her  to  the  wild  flowers  from 
which  Alpine  honey  was  made.  And,  indeed,  she 
suggested  wild  fragrance.  Her  brown  hair  was  done 
up  on  the  top  of  her  head  and  fastened  by  a  comb 
like  that  of  all  the  peasant  girls  of  the  district ;  but 
she  wore  the  blouse  and  stuff  skirt  of  the  well-to-do 
bourgeoisie. 

"  Six  o'clock  is  already  time  for  dinner  in  Brantome," 
remarked  Monsieur  Bigourdin. 

"  They  are  accustomed  to  the  hours  of  London  and 
Paris,  where  I've  heard  they  dine  at  eight  or  nine  or 
any  time  that  pleases  them." 

"  In  London  and  Paris  they  get  up  at  midday  and 
go  to  bed  at  dawn.  They  are  coming  here  purposely 
to  dishabiUtate  themselves  from  the  ways  of  London 
and  Paris.  At  least,  so  your  father  gives  me  to 
understand.     It  is  a  bad  beginning."    • 

"  I  am  longing  to  see  them,"  said  Felise. 

52 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  53 

"  Don't  you  see  enough  English  ?  Ten  years  ago  an 
Enghshman  at  Brantome  was  a  curiosity.  All  the 
inhabitants,  you  among  them,  ma  petite  Felise,  used 
to  run  two  kilometres  to  look  at  him.  But  now,  with 
the  automobile,  they  are  as  familiar  in  the  eyes  of  the 
good  Brantomois  as  truffles." 

By  this  simile  Monsieur  Bigourdin  did  not  mean  to 
convey  the  idea  that  the  twelve  hundred  inhabitants 
of  Brantome  were  all  gastronomic  voluptuaries.  It  is 
true  that  Brantome  battens  on  pdte  de  foie  gras  ;  but 
it  is  the  essence  of  its  existence,  seeing  that  Brantome 
makes  it  and  sells  it,  and  with  pigs  and  dogs  hunts  the 
truffles  without  which  pdte  de  foie  gras  would  be  a 
comestible  of  fat  absurdity. 

"  But  no  English  have  been  sent  before  by  my 
father,"  said  FeHse. 

"  That's  true,"  replied  Bigourdin,  with  a  capacious 
smile,  showing  white  strong  teeth. 

"  They  are  the  first  people — French  or  English,  I 
shall  have  met  who  know  my  father." 

"  That's  true  also,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  And  they 
must  be  droll  types  hke  your  excellent  father  himself. 
Tiens,  let  me  see  again  what  he  says  about  them." 
He  searched  his  pockets,  a  process  involving  convulsions 
of  his  frame  which  made  the  rocking-chair  creak.  "  It 
must  be  in  my  black  jacket,"  said  he  at  last. 

"  I'll  get  it,"  said  Fehse,  and  went  into  the  house. 

Bigourdin  rolled  and  ht  a  cigarette,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  comfortable  reflection.  The  Hotel  des  Grottes 
was  built  on  the  slope  of  a  rock,  and  the  loggia  or 
veranda  on  which  Bigourdin  was  taking  his  ease 
hung  over  a  miniature  precipice.  At  the  bottom  ran 
the  River  Dronne  encircling  most  of  the  old-world 
town,  and  crossed  here  and  there  by  flashing  little 
bridges.  Away  to  the  north-east  loomed  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Limousin  where  the  river  has  its  source. 
The  tiny  place  slumbered  in  the  slanting  sunshine. 
The  sight  of  Brantome  stretched  out  below  him  was 


54  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

inseparable  from  Bigourdin's  earliest  conception  of  the 
universe.  In  the  Hotel  des  Grottes  he  had  been 
born  ;  there,  save  for  a  few  years  at  Lyons,  whither  he 
had  been  sent  by  his  mother  in  order  to  widen  his 
views  on  hotel-keeping,  he  had  spent  all  his  life,  and 
there  he  sincerely  hoped  to  die  full  of  honour  and  good 
nourishment.  Brantome  contented  him.  It  belonged 
to  him.  It  was  so  diminutive  and  compact  that  he 
could  take  the  whole  of  it  in  at  once.  He  was  familiar 
with  all  the  little  tragedies  and  comedies  that  enacted 
themselves  beneath  those  red-tiled  roofs.  Did  he 
walk  down  the  Rue  de  Perigueux,  his  hand  went  to 
his  hat  as  often  as  that  of  the  President  of  the  Republic 
on  his  way  to  a  review  at  Longchamps.  He  was  a 
man  of  substance  and  consideration,  and  he  was 
only  forty  years  of  age.  And  Felise  adored  him,  and 
anticipated  his  comm.ands. 

She  returned  with  the  letter.  He  glanced  through 
it,  reading  portions  aloud  : 

"  I  am  sending  you  a  young  couple  whom  I  have 
taken  to  my  heart.  They  are  not  relations,  they  are 
not  married,  and  they  are  not  lovers.  They  are 
Arcadians  of  the  pavement,  more  innocent  than  doves, 
and  of  a  ferocious  English  morality.  She  is  a  painter 
without  patrons,  he  a  professor  without  classes.  They 
are  also  candidates  for  happiness  performing  their 
novitiate.     Later  they  will  take  the  vows." 

"  What  does  he  mean  ?     What  vows  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  they  are  pious  people,  and  are  going  to 
enter  the  convent,"  Felise  suggested. 

"  I  can  see  your  father — anti-clerical  that  he  is — 
interesting  himself  in  little  nuns  and  monks." 

"  Yet  he  and  Monsieur  le  Cure  are  good  friends." 

"  That  is  because  Monsieur  le  Cure  has  much  wisdom 
and  no  fear.  He  would  have  tried  to  convert  Voltaire 
himself.  .  .  .  Let  us  continue " 

"  As  tliey  are  poor  and  doing  this  out  of  obedi- 
ence  " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  55 

"  SapreloUe !  "  he  laughed,  "  they  seem  to  have 
taken  the  three  vows  already  !  " 

He  read  on  :  "  — they  do  not  desire  the  royal  suite 
in  your  Excelsior  Palace.  Corinna  Hastings  has  lived 
under  the  roofs  in  Paris,  Martin  Overshaw  over  a 
baker's  shop  in  a  vague  quarter  of  London.  All  the 
luxury  they  ask  is  to  be  allowed  to  wash  themselves 
all  over  in  cold  water  once  a  day." 

"  I  was  sure  you  had  not  written  to  my  father  about 
the  bathroom,"  said  Felise. 

She  was  right.  But  the  omission  was  odd.  For 
Bigourdin  took  inordinate  pride  in  the  neAvly  installed 
bathjToom,  and  all  the  touring  clubs  of  Europe  and 
editors  of  guide  books  had  heard  of  it,  and  he  had 
offered  it  to  the  admiring  inspection  of  half  Brantome. 
Monsieur  le  Maire  himself  had  visited  it,  and  if  he  had 
only  arrived  girt  with  his  tricolour  sash,  Bigourdin 
would  have  jumped  in  and  demanded  an  inaugural 
ceremony. 

"  I  must  have  forgotten,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  But 
no  matter.  They  can  have  plenty  of  cold  water.  But 
if  I  am  to  feed  them  and  lodge  them  and  wash  them 
for  the  derisory  price  your  father  stipulates,  they 
must  learn  that  six  o'clock  is  the  hour  of  table  d'hote 
at  the  H6tel  des  Grottes.  It  is  only  people  in  auto- 
mobiles who  can  turn  the  place  upside  down,  and  then 
they  have  to  pay  four  francs  for  their  dinner." 

He  rose  mountainously,  and,  standing,  displayed  the 
figure  of  a  vigorous,  huge-proportioned,  upright  man. 
On  his  face,  large  and  ruddy,  a  small  black  moustache 
struck  a  startling  note.  His  eyes  were  brown  and 
kindly,  his  mouth  too  small,  and  his  chin  had  a  deep 
cleft,  which  on  a  creature  of  lesser  scale  would  have 
been  a  pleasing  dimple. 

"  Allans  diner,"  said  he. 

In  the  patriarchal  fashion,  now  unfortunately  becom- 
ing obsolete.  Monsieur  Bigourdin  dined  with  his  guests. 
The  salle  a  manger — off  the  loggia — was  furnished  with 


56  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

the  long  central  table  sacred  to  commercial  travellers, 
and  with  a  few  side  tables  for  other  visitors.  At  one  of 
these,  in  the  corner  between  the  service  door  and  the 
dining-room  door,  sat  Monsieur  Bigourdin  and  his 
niece.  As  they  entered  the  room  five  bagmen,  with 
anticipatory  napkins  stuck  cornerwise  in  their  collars, 
half  rose  from  their  chairs  and  bowed. 

"  Bon  soir,  messieurs,"  said  Bigourdin,  and  he 
passed  with  F^lise  to  his  table. 

Euphemie,  the  cook,  fat  and  damp,  entered  with  the 
soup  tureen,  followed  by  a  desperate-looking,  crop- 
headed  villain  bearing  plates.  The  latter,  who  viewed 
half  a  mile  off  through  a  telescope  might  have  passed 
for  an  orthodox  waiter,  appeared  at  close  quarters  to 
be  raimented  in  grease  and  grime.  He  served  the 
soup  ;  first  to  the  five  commercial  travellers — and  then 
to  Bigourdin  and  Felise.  On  Felise's  plate  he  left  a 
great  thumb-mark.  She  looked  at  it  with  an  expression 
of  disgust. 

"  Regarde,  mon  oncle." 

Bigourdin,  alluding  to  him  as  a  sacred  animal,  asked 
what  she  could  expect.  He  was  from  Bourdeilles,  a 
place  of  rocks  some  five  miles  distant,  contemned 
by  Brantome,  chej-lieu  du  canton.  He  summoned 
him. 

"  Polydore." 

"  Oui,  monsieur." 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake.  You  are  no  longer  in 
the  hands  of  the  police." 

"  Monsieur  veut  dire ?  " 

"  I  am  not  the  Commissaire  who  desires  to  photo- 
graph your  finger-prints." 

"  Ah,  pardon,"  said  Polydore,  and  with  a  soiled 
napkin  he  erased  the  offending  stain. 

"  Sucre  animal  I  "  repeated  Bigourdin,  attacking  his 
soup.     "  I  wonder  why  I  keep  him." 

"  I  too,"  said  Fehse. 

"  If  his  grandmother  and  my  grandmother  had  not 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  57 

been    loster-sisters "    said   Bigourdin,    waving    an 

indignant  spoon. 

"  You  would  have  kept  him  just  because  he  is  ugly," 
smiled  Felise.     "  You  would  have  found  a  reason." 

"  One  of  these  days  I'll  throw  him  into  the  river," 
Bigourdin  declared.  "  I  am  patient.  I  am  slow  to 
anger.  But  when  I  am  roused  I  am  like  a  lion.  Poly- 
dore,"  said  he  serenely,  as  the  dilapidated  menial 
removed  the  plates,  "  if  you  can't  keep  your  hands 
clean  I'll  make  you  wear  gloves." 

"  People  would  laugh  at  me,"  said  Polydore. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  Bigourdin, 

The  meal  was  nearly  over  when  the  expected  guests 
were  announced.  Uncle  and  niece  shpped  from  the 
dining-room  into  the  httle  vestibule  to  welcome  them. 
An  elderly  man  in  a  blouse,  named  Baptiste,  was 
already  busying  himself  with  their  luggage — the 
knapsacks  fastened  to  the  back  of  the  bicycles. 

"  Mademoiselle,  monsieur,"  said  Bigourdin,  "  it  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  me  to  meet  friends  of  my  excellent 
brother-in-law.  Allow  me  to  present  Mademoiselle 
Felise  Fortinbras  "  (he  gave  the  French  pronunciation), 
"  my  niece.  As  dinner  is  not  yet  over,  and  as  you 
must  be  hungry,  will  you  give  yourselves  the  trouble 
to  enter  the  salle  a  manger." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  wash  first,"  said  Corinna. 

Bigourdin  glanced  at  Felise.  They  were  beginning 
early. 

"  There  is  a  bathroom  upstairs  fitted  with  every 
modern  luxury." 

Corinna  laughed.     "  I  only  want  to  tidy  up  a  bit." 

"  I  will  show  you  to  your  room,"  said  Felise,  and 
conducted  her  up  the  staircase  beside  the  bureau. 

"  And  monsieur  ?  " 

Martin  went  over  to  the  Httle  lavaho  against  the 
wall,  beside  which  hung  the  usual  damp  towel. 

"  This  will  do  quite  well,"  said  he. 

Bigourdin  breathed  again.     The  new  arrivals  were 


58  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

quite  human  ;  and  they  spoke  French  perfectly.  The 
men  conversed  a  while  until  the  two  girls  descended. 
Bigourdin  led  his  guests  into  the  salle  d  manger,  and 
installed  them  at  a  table  by  one  of  the  windows  looking 
on  the  loggia. 

"  Like  this,"  said  he,  "  you  will  be  cool  and  also 
enjoy  the  view." 

"  I  think,"  said  Corinna,  looking  up  at  him,  "  you 
have  the  most  delicious  little  town  I  have  seen  in 
France." 

Bigourdin's  eyes  beamed  with  gratification.  He 
bowed,  and  went  back  to  his  unfinished  meal. 

"  Behold  over  there,"  said  he  to  Felise,  "  a  young 
girl  of  extraordinary  good  sense.  She  is  also  extremely 
pretty  ;   a  combination  which  is  rare  in  women." 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  said  Fehse  demurely. 

The  five  commercial  travellers  rose,  and  bowing  as 
they  passed  their  host,  went  out  in  search,  after  the 
manner  of  their  kind,  of  coffee  and  backgammon  at 
the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,  in  the  Rue  de  Perigueux.  It  is 
only  foreigners  who  linger  over  coffee,  liqueurs,  and 
tobacco  in  the  little  inns  of  France.  Presently  Felise 
went  off  to  the  bureau  to  make  up  the  day's  accounts, 
and  Bigourdin,  having  smoked  a  thoughtful  cigarette, 
crossed  over  to  Martin  and  Corinna.  After  the  good 
hotel-keeper's  inquiry  as  to  their  gastronomic  satisfac- 
tion, he  swept  his  hand  through  his  inch-high  standing 
stubble  of  black  hair  and  addressed  Martin. 

"  Monsieur  Over — Oversh — forgive  me  if  I  cannot 
pronounce  your  name " 

"  Overshaw,"  said  Martin  distinctly. 

"  Auvershaud  —  Auverchat  —  7ion  —  c'est  bigrement 
difficile." 

"  Then  call  me  Monsieur  Martin,  d  la  frangaise." 

"  And  me,  Mademoiselle  Corinne,"  laughed  Corinna. 

"  Voild  !  "  cried  Bigourdin  deHghted.  "  Thos-^  are 
names  familiar  to  every  Frenchman."  Then  his  brow 
clouded.      "  Well,    Monsieur   Martin,    there    is   some- 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  59 

thing  I  would  say  to  you.     What  profession  does  my 
good  brother-in-law  exercise  in  Paris  ?  " 

Martin  and  Corinna  exchanged  glances. 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  said  Corinna. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Martin. 

"  It  is  on  account  of  my  niece,  his  daughter,  that  T 
ask.  You  permit  me  to  sit  down  for  a  mon  ent  ? " 
He  drew  a  chair.  "  You  must  understand  at  once," 
said  he,  "  that  I  have  nothing  against  Monsieur 
Fortinbras.  I  love  him  like  myself.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  also  love  my  little  niece.  She  is  very 
simple,  very  innocent,  and  does  not  appreciate  the 
subtleties  of  the  great  world.     She  adores  her  father." 

"  I  can  quite  understand  that,"  said  Martin,  "  and 
I  am  sure  that  he  adores  her." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  That  is  why  I  would 
like  you  to  have  no  doubt  as  to  the  profession  of  my 
brother-in-law.  You  have  never,  by  any  chance. 
Mademoiselle  Corinna,  heard  him  called  '  Le  Matchand 
de  Bonheur  '  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Corinna,  meeting  his  eyes. 

"  Never,"  echoed  Martin. 

"  Not  even  when  he  advised  you  to  come  here  ?  If 
is  for  Felise  that  I  ask." 

"  No,"  said  Corinna. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Martin. 

"  But  you  have  heard  that  he  is  an  avot{e  ?  " 

"  An  English  solicitor  practising  in  Paris.  Of 
course,"  said  Martin. 

"  A  very  clever  solicitor,"  said  Corinns, 

Bigourdin  smote  his  chest  with  his  great  hand.  "  I 
thank  you  with  all  my  heart  for  your  understanding. 
You  are  the  first  persons  she  has  met  who  know  her 
father — it  is  somewhat  embarrassing,  what  I  say — and 
she,  in  her  innocence,  will  ask  you  questions,  which  he 
did  not  foresee " 

"  There  will  be  no  difficulty  in  answering  them," 
replied  Martin. 


6o  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Encore  merci,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  You  must  know 
that  Felise  came  to  us  at  five  years  old,  when  my  poor 
wife  was  Hving — she  died  ten  years  ago — I  am  a 
widower.  She  is  to  me  hke  my  own  daughter. 
Although,"  he  added  with  a  smile  and  a  touch  of 
vanity,  "  I  am  not  quite  so  old  as  that.  My  sister,  her 
mother,  is  older  than  I." 

"  She  is  aUve  then  ?  "  asked  Corinna. 
"  Certainly,"  repHed  Bigourdin.  "  Did  you  not 
know  that  ?  But  she  has  been  an  invalid  for  many 
years.  That  is  why  Felise  Hves  here  instead  of  with 
her  parents.  I  hope,  mademoiselle,  you  and  she  will 
be  good  friends." 

"  I  am  sure  we  shall,"  rephed  Corinna. 
A  Httle  while  later  the  two  wanderers  sat  over  their 
coffee  by  the  balustrade  of  the  covered  loggia  and 
looked  out  on  the  velvet  night,  filled  with  contentment. 
They  had  reached  their  goal.  Here  they  were  to  stay 
until  it  pleased  Fortinbras  to  come  and  direct  them 
afresh.  Hitherto  their  resting-places,  mere  stages  on 
their  journey,  had  lacked  the  atmosphere  of  per- 
manence. The  still  nights  when  they  had  talked 
together,  as  now,  beneath  the  stars,  had  throbbed  with 
a  certain  fever,  the  anticipation  of  the  morrow's  dawn, 
the  morrow's  adventures  in  strange  lands.  But  now 
they  had  come  to  their  destined  haven.  Here  they 
would  remain  to-morrow,  and  the  morrow  after  that, 
and  for  morrows  indefinite.  A  phase  of  their  hfe  had 
ended  with  curious  suddenness. 

As  the  intensity  of  silence  falls  on  ears  accustomed 
to  the  whirr  of  machinery,  so  did  an  intensity  of  peace 
encompass  their  souls.  And  the  dim-Ht  valley  itself 
brought  solace.  Not  here  stretched  infinite  horizons 
such  as  those  of  the  plains  of  La  Beauce  through  which 
they  had  passed,  horizons  whence  sprang  a  whole 
hemisphere  of  stars,  horizons  which  embracing  nothing 
set  the  heart  aching  for  infinite  things  beyond,  horizons 
in  the  centre  of  which  they  stood  specks  of  despair 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  6i 

overwhelmed  by  immensities.  Here  the  comfortable 
land  had  taken  them  to  its  bosom.  Near  enough  to 
be  felt,  the  vague  blueish  mass  of  the  Limousin  moun- 
tains sweeping  from  north  to  east  assured  them  of  the 
calm  protection  of  eternal  forces.  Beyond  them  who 
need  look  or  crave  to  look  ?  To  the  fevered  spirit 
they  brought  in  their  mothering  shelter  all  that  was 
needed  by  man  for  his  happiness :  fruitfulness  of 
cornfields,  mystery  of  beech-woods  faintly  revealed  by 
the  rays  of  a  young  moon,  a  quiet  town  for  man's 
untroubled  habitation,  guarded  by  its  encircling  river, 
rather  guessed  than  seen,  and  betrayed  only  here  and 
there  by  a  streak  of  quivering  light.  And  as  the 
distant  glare  of  great  cities — the  lights  of  London 
reflected  in  the  heavens — in  the  days  of  wandering 
youths  seeking  their  fortunes,  compelled  them  moth- 
like to  the  focus,  so  in  its  dreamy  microcosm  did  the 
lights  of  the  little  town,  a  thousand  flickering  points 
from  the  outskirts  and  a  line  of  long  illumination 
marking  the  main  street  athwart  the  dark  mass  of 
roofs  and  dissipating  itself  hazily  in  mid-air,  appeal  to 
the  imagination,  set  it  wondering  as  to  the  myriad 
joyous  affairs  of  men. 

In  low  voices  they  talked  of  Fortinbras.  His  spirit 
seemed  to  have  emerged  from  the  welter  of  Paris  into 
this  pool  of  the  world's  tranquillity.  In  spite  of  his 
magnetic  force  his  words  had  been  but  words.  What 
they  were  to  meet  at  Brantome  they  knew  not.  They 
scarce  had  thought.  What  to  them  had  been  the 
landlord  of  a  tiny  provincial  inn  but  a  good-natured 
common  fellow  unworthy  of  speculation  ?  And  what 
the  daughter  of  the  seedy  Paris  Bohemian,  snapper-up 
of  unconsidered  trifles,  but  a  serving-girl  of  no  account, 
plain  and  redolent  of  the  scullery  ?  Bigourdin's 
courteous  bearing  and  deUcacy  of  speech  had  come 
upon  them  as  a  surprise.  So  had  the  refinement  of 
Felise.  They  had  to  readjust  their  conception  of 
Fortinbras.     They  were  amazed,  simple  souls,  to  find 


62  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

that  he  had  ties  in  Hfe  so  indubitably  respectable. 
And  he  had  a  wife,  too,  a  chronic  invalid,  with  whom  he 
Hved  in  the  jealous  obscurity  of  Paris.  It  was  pathetic. 
.  .  .  They  had  obeyed  him  hai-dly  knowing  why.  At 
the  back  of  their  minds  he  had  been  but  a  charlatan 
of  peculiar  originality — at  the  same  time  a  being 
almost  mythical,  so  remote  from  them  was  his  life. 
And  now  he  became  startUngly  real.  They  heard  his 
voice  soft  and  persuasive  whisperiner  by  their  side 
with  a  touch  of  gentle  mockery. 

Then  silence  fell  upon  them  ;  their  minds  drifted 
apart,  and  they  lost  themselves  in  their  separate 
dreams. 

At  last  Polydore,  coming  to  remove  the  coffee-tray 
and  to  inquire  as  to  their  further  wants,  broke  the 
spell.  WTien  he  had  gone,  Corinna  leaned  her  elbow 
on  the  Httle  iron  table  and  asked  in  her  direct  fashion  : 

"  What  have  you  been  thinking  of,  Martin  ?  " 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  it  was  a 
moment  or  two  before  he  answered. 

"  When  I  was  in  London,"  said  he,  "I  seem  to  have 
lived  in  a  tiny  provincial  town.  Now  that  I  come  to 
a  tiny  provincial  town  I  have  an  odd  feeling  that  the 
deep  life  of  a  great  city  is  before  me.  That's  the  best 
I  can  do  by  way  of  explanation.  Thoughts  like  that 
are  a  bit  formless  and  elusive,  you  know." 

"  What  do  you  think  3^ou're  going  to  find  here  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  Why  not  happiness  in  some  form 
or  other  ?  " 

"  You  expect  a  lot  for  five  francs,"  she  laughed. 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"  I ?  " 

"  Yes,  what  have  you  been  thinking  of  ?  " 
She    pointed,    and   in    the   gloom   he    followed   the 
direction  of  white  bloused  arm  and  white  hand. 

"  Do  you  see  that  Httle  house  on  the  quay  ?  The 
one  with  the  lights  and  the  loggia.  You  can  just  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  interior.     See  ?     There's  a  picture, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  63 

and  below  a  woman  sitting  at  a  piano.  If  you  listen 
you  can  catch  the  sound.  It's  one  of  Chopin's  Noc- 
turnes. Well,  I've  been  wishing  I  were  that  woman, 
with  her  life  full  of  her  home  and  husband  and  children. 
Sheltered — protected — love  all  around  her — nothing 
more  to  ask  of  God.     It  was  a  beautiful  dream." 

"  You  too,"  said  Martin,  "  feel  about  this  place 
somewhat  as  I  do." 

"  I  suppose  it's  the  night.  It  turns  one  into  a 
sentimental  lunatic.  Fancy  Uving  here  for  the  rest  of 
one's  days,  and  concentrating  one's  soul  on  human 
stomachs." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Corinna  ?  " 

"  Isn't  that  what  woman's  domestic  life  comes  to  ? 
She  must  fill  her  husband's  stomach  properly  or  he'll 
beat  her  or  run  off  with  somebody  else,  and  she  must 
fill  her  babies'  stomachs  properly  or  they'll  get  cramps 
and  convulsions  and  bilious  attacks  and  die.  It  was 
a  beautiful  dream.  But  the  reality  would  drive  me 
stiff,  stark,  staring  mad." 

"  My  ideas  of  married  life,"  said  Martin  sagely,  "  are 
quite  different." 

"  Of  course !  "  she  cried.  "  You're  one  of  the 
creatures  with  the  stomach." 

"  I've  never  been  aware  of  it,"  said  Martin. 

"  It  strikes  me  you're  too  good  for  this  world,"  said 
Corinna. 

Martin  rolled  a  cigarette  from  a  brown  packet  of 
Maryland  tobacco — his  supply  of  English  "  Woodbines  " 
had  long  since  given  out. 

"  I  have  my  ideals  as  to  love — and  so  forth,"  said  he. 

"  And  so  have  I.  '  All  for  Love  and  the  World 
Well  Lost.'  That's  the  title  of  an  old  ^lay,  isn't  it  ? 
I  can  understand  it.  I  would  give  my  soui  for  it.  But 
it  happens  once  in  a  blue  m.oon.  Meanwhile  one  has 
to  live.  And  connubiality  and  maternity  in  a  Httle 
lost  hole  in  Nowhere  like  this  aren't  life." 

"  What  the  dickens  is  life  ?  "  asked  Martin. 


64  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

But  her  definition  he  did  not  hear,  for  the  vast  figure 
of  Bigourdin  loomed  in  the  doorway  of  the  salh  a 
manger. 

"  I  wish  you  good  night,"  said  he. 

Martin  rose  and  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I  think  it's 
time  to  go  to  bed."  , 

*■  So  do  I,"  yawned  Corinna. 


CHAPTER  V 

The  first  thing  a  cat  does  on  taking  up  its  quarters  in 
a  new  home  is  to  make  itself  acquainted  with  its 
surroundings.  It  walks  methodically  with  uplifted  tail 
and  quivering  nose  from  vast  monument  of  sideboard 
to  commonplace  of  chair,  from  glittering  palisade  of 
fender  to  long  lying  bastion  of  couch,  creeps  by  defences 
of  walls  noting  each  comfortable  issue,  prowls  through 
lanes  and  squares  innumerable  formed  by  intricacies 
of  furniture  ;  and  having  once  gone  through  the  grave 
business,  worries  its  head  no  more  about  topography 
and  points  of  interest,  but  settles  down  to  serene 
enjoyment  of  such  features  of  the  place  as  have 
appealed  to  its  aesthetic  or  grosser  instincts.  In  this 
respect  the  average  human  is  nearer  a-  cat  than  he  cares 
to  realize.  The  first  hour  on  board  a  strange  ship  is 
generally  devoted  to  an  exhaustive  exploration  never 
repeated  during  the  rest  of  the  voyage,  and  doubtless 
a  prisoner's  first  act  on  being  locked  into  his  ceU  is  to 
creep  round  the  confined  space  and  famiharize  himself 
with  his  depressing  installation. 

Obeying  this  instinct  common  to  cats  and  men, 
Martin  and  Corinna,  as  soon  as  they  had  finished 
breakfast  the  next  morning,  wandered  forth  and 
explored  Brantome.  They  visited  the  grey  remains  of 
the  old  abbey  begun  by  Charlemagne.  But  Villon, 
writing  in  the  fifteenth  century  and  asking,  "  Mais  oU 
est  le  preux  Charl&magne  ? "  might  have  asked  with 
equal  sense  of  the  transitory  nature  of  human  things  : 
"  Where  is  the  Abbey  which  the  knightly  Charlemagne 
did  piously  build  in  Brantome  ?  "     For  the  Normans 

65  a 


66  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

came  and  destroyed  it,  and  one  eleventh-century  tower 
protecting  a  Romanesque  Gothic  church  alone  tells 
where  the  abbey  stood.  StrolUng  down  to  the  river 
level  along  the  dusty,  shady  road,  they  came  to  the 
terraced  toll-side,  past  which  the  river,  once  infinitely 
furious,  must  have  torn  its  way.  In  the  sheer  rock 
were  doors  of  human  dwelHngs,  numbered  sedately  hke 
the  houses  of  a  smug  row.  Above  them,  at  the  height 
of  a  cottage  roof,  stretched  a  grassy  plain  from  which, 
corresponding  with  each  homestead,  emerged  the  short 
stump  of  a  chimney  emitting  thin  smoke  from  the 
hearth  beneath.  Before  one  of  the  open  doors  they 
halted.  Childi-en  were  playing  in  the  one  room  which 
made  up  the  entire  habitation.  They  had  the  impres- 
sion of  a  vague  bed  in  the  gloom,  a  table,  a  chair  or 
two,  cooking  utensils  by  the  rude  chimney-piece,  bunks 
fitted  into  the  Hving  rock  at  the  sides.  The  children 
might  have  been  Peter  Pan  and  Wendy  and  Michael 
and  John  and  the  rest  of  the  delectable  company,  and 
the  chimney-stump  above  them  might  have  been 
replaced  by  Michael's  silk  hat,  and  on  the  greensward 
around  it  pirates  and  Red  Indians  might  have  fought 
undetected  by  the  happy  denizens  below. 

Thus  announced  Corinna  with  Hghter  fancy.  But 
Martin,  serious  exponent  of  truth,  explained  that  the 
monks,  in  the  desolate  times  when  their  abbey  was 
rebuilding,  had  hewn  out  these  abodes  for  cells,  and  had 
dwelt  in  them  many  many  years  ;  and  to  prove  it, 
having  conferred,  before  her  descent  to  breakfast,  with 
the  excellent  Monsieur  Bigourdin,  he  led  her  to  a 
neighbouring  cave,  called  in  the  district  Les  Grottes — 
hence  the  name  of  Bigourdin's  hotel — which  the  good 
monks,  their  pious  aspiration  far  exceeding  their 
powers  of  artistic  execution,  had  adorned  with  grotesque 
and  primitive  carvings  in  bas-rehef  representing  the 
Last  Judgment  and  the  Crucifixion. 

They  paused  to  admire  the  Renaissance  Fontaine 
Medicis,  set  in  starthng  contrast  against  the  rugged 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  67 

background  of  rock,  with  its  graceful  balustrade  and 
its  medallion  enclosing  the  bust  of  the  worthy  Pierre 
de  Bourdeille,  Abb^  de  Brantome,  the  immortal 
chronicler  of  horrific  scandals ;  and  they  crossed  the 
Pont  des  Barris,  and  wandered  by  the  quays  where 
men  angled  patiently  for  fat  gudgeon,  and  women 
below  at  the  water's  edge  beat  their  laundry  with 
lusty  arms  ;  and  so  past  the  row  of  dwellings  old  and 
new  huddled  together,  a  deca5dng  thirteenth-century 
house  with  its  heavy  corbellings  and  a  bit  of  rounded 
turret  lost  in  the  masonry  jostling  a  perky  modern  cafe 
decked  with  iron  balconies  painted  green,  until  they 
came  to  the  end  of  the  bridge  that  commands  the  main 
entrance  to  the  tiny  water-girt  town.  They  plunged 
into  it  with  childlike  curiosity.  In  the  Rue  de  Peri- 
gueux  they  stood  entranced  before  the  shop-fronts  of 
that  wondrous  thoroughfare  alive  with  the  traffic  of 
an  occasional  ox-cart,  a  rusty  one-horse  omnibus 
labelled  "Service  de  Ville,"  and  some  prehistoric 
automobile  wheezing  by,  a  clattering  impertinence. 
For  there  were  shops  in  Brantome  of  fair  pretension — 
is  it  not  the  chef-lieu  du  canton  ? — and  you  could  buy 
articles  de  Paris  at  most  three  years  old.  And  there 
was  a  Pharmacie  Internationale,  so  called  because 
there  you  could  obtain  Pear's  soap  and  Eno's  Fruit 
Salt ;  and  a  draper's  where  were  exposed  for  sale 
frilleries  which  struck  Martin  as  marvellous,  but  at 
which  Corinna  curved  a  supercilious  lip  ;  and  a  shop 
ambitiously  blazoned  behind  whose  plate-glass  wondows 
could  be  seen  a  porcelain  bath-tub  and  other  adjuncts 
of  the  luxurious  bathroom,  on  one  of  wliich,  sole 
occupant  of  the  establishment,  a  Httle  pig-tailed  girl 
was  seated  eating  from  a  porringer  on  her  knees  ;  and 
there  were  all  kinds  of  other  shops,  including  one 
which  sold  cabbages  and  salsifies  and  charcoal  and 
petrol  and  picture  post  cards  and  rusty  iron  and 
vintage  eggs  and  guano  and  all  manner  of  fantastic 
dirt.     And  there  was   the  Librairie   de   la  Dordogne, 


68  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

which  smiled  at  you  when  you  asked  for  devotional 
pictures  or  tin-tacks,  but  gasped  when  you  demanded 
books  :  Martin  and  Corinna,  however,  demanded  them 
with  British  insensibility,  and  marched  away  with  an 
armful  of  cheap  reprints  of  French  classics  disinterred 
from  a  tomb  beneath  the  counter.  But  before  they 
went,  Martin  asked  : 

"  But  have  you  nothing  new  ?  Nothing  from  Paris 
that  has  just  appeared  ?  " 

"  Void,  monsieur,"  replied  the  elderly  proprietress 
of  the  Library  of  the  Dordogne,  plucking  a  volume 
from  a  speckled  shelf  at  the  back  of  the  shop.  "  O71 
tr Olive  ga  ires  jolt."  And  she  handed  him  Le  Maitre 
de  Forges,  by  Georges  Ohnet. 

"  But  this,  madame,"  said  Martin,  examining  the 
venerable  unsold  copy,  "  was  published  in  1882." 

"  I  regret,  monsieur,"  said  the  lady,  "  we  have 
nothing  more  recent." 

"  ril  buy  it  if  it  breaks  me — as  a  curiosity,"  cried 
Corinna,  and  she  counted  out  two  francs  seventy-five 
centimes. 

"  Ninety-five,"  said  the  bookseller — she  was  speckled 
and  dusty  and  colourless  like  the  back  of  her  library. 

"  But  in  Paris " 

"In  Paris  it  is  different,  mademoiselle.  We  are  here 
en  province." 

Corinna  added  the  extra  twopence,  and  went  out 
with  Martin,  grasping  her  prize. 

This  is  the  deUciousest  place  in  the  world,"  she 
laughed.  "  Eighteen  eighty-two  1  Why,  that's  years 
before  I  was  born  !  " 

"  But  what  on  earth  are  we  going  to  do  for  books 
here  ?  "  Martin  asked  anxiously. 

"  There  is  always  the  railway  station,"  said  Corinna. 
"  And  if  you  kiss  the  old  lady  at  the  bookstall  nicely, 
she  will  get  you  anything  you  want." 

"  The  ways  of  provincial  France,"  said  Martin, 
'  take  a  good  deal  of  finding  out !  " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  69 

Thus  began  their  first  day  in  Brantome.  It  ended 
peacefully.  Another  day  passed,  and  yet  another  and 
many  more,  and  they  lived  in  lotus  land.  Soon  after 
their  arrival  came  their  luggage  from  Paris,  and  they 
were  enabled  to  change  the  aspect  of  the  road-worn 
vagabond  for  that  of  neat  suburban  English  folk,  and 
as  such  gained  the  approbation  of  the  small  community. 
They  had  little  else  to  do  but  continue  to  repeat  their 
exploration.  In  their  unadventurous  wanderings  FeKse 
sometimes  accompanied  them,  and  shyly  spoke  her 
halting  English.  To  Corinna  alone  she  could  chatter 
with  quaint  ungrammatical  fluency  ;  but  in  Martin's 
presence  she  blushed  confusedly  at  every  broken 
sentence.  All  her  young  Ufe  she  had  lived  in  her 
mother's  land  and  spoken  her  mother's  tongue.  She 
had  a  vague  notion  that  legally  she  was  English,  and 
she  took  mighty  pride  in  it,  but  by  training  and  mental 
habit  she  was  the  Uttle  French  bourgeoise  through 
and  through.  With  Martin  alone,  however,  she 
abandoned  all  attempts  at  English,  and  gradually  her 
shyness  disappeared.  She  gave  the  first  signs  of 
confidence  by  speaking  of  her  mother  in  Paris  as  of  a 
dream  woman  of  wonderful  excellences. 

"  You  see  her  often,  mademoiselle  ?  "  Martin  asked 
politely. 

"  Alas,  no.  Monsieur  Martin."  She  shook  her  head 
sadly,  and  gazed  into  the  distance.  They  were  idling 
on  one  of  the  bridges  while  Corinna  a  few  feet  away 
made  a  rapid  sketch. 

"  But  your  father  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes.  He  comes  four  times  a  year.  It  is  not 
that  I  do  not  love  him.  J'adore  papa.  Every  one 
does.  You  cannot  help  it.  But  it  is  not  the  same 
thing.     A  mother " 

"  I  know,  mademoiselle,"  said  Martin.  "  My  mother 
died  a  few  months  ago." 

She  looked  at  him  with  quick  tenderness.  "  That 
must  have  caused  you  much  pain  " 


70  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,"  said  Martin  simply,  and  he 
smiled  for  the  first  time  into  her  eyes,  realizing  quite 
suddenly  that  beneath  them  lay  deep  wells  of  sympathy 
and  understanding.  "  Perhaps  one  of  these  days  you 
will  let  me  talk  to  you  about  her,"  he  added. 

She  flushed.  "  Why,  yes.  Talking  relieves  the 
heart."  She  used  the  French  word  soulager — that 
word  of  deep-mouthed  comfort. 

"  It  does.     And  your  mother,  Mademoiselle  Felise  ?  " 

"  She  cannot  walk,"  she  sighed.  "  All  these  years 
she  has  lain  on  her  bed — ever  since  I  left  her  when  I 
was  quite  little.     So  you  see,  she  cannot  come  to  see 


me. 


"  But  you  might  go  to  Paris." 

"  We  do  not  travel  much  in  Brantome,"  replied 
Felise. 

"  Then  you  have  not  seen  her " 

"  No.  But  I  remember  her.  She  was  so  beautiful 
and  so  tender — she  had  chestnut  hair.  My  father  says 
she  has  not  changed  at  all.  And  there  she  lies  day 
after  day,  always  suffering,  but  always  sweet  and 
patient  and  never  complaining.  She  is  an  angel." 
After  a  Httle  pause  she  raised  her  face  to  him — "  But 
here  am  I  talking  of  my  mother,  when  you  asked  me 
to  let  you  talk  of  yours." 

So  Martin  then  and  on  many  occasions  afterwards 
spoke  to  her  of  one  that  was  dead  more  intimately 
than  he  could  speak  to  Corinna,  who  seemed  impatient 
of  the  expression  of  simple  emotions.  Corinna  he 
would  never  have  allowed  to  see  tears  come  into  his 
eyes  ;  but  with  Felise  it  did  not  matter.  Her  own 
eyes  filled  too  in  sympathy.  And  this  was  the  begin- 
ning of  a  quiet  understanding  between  them.  Perhaps 
it  might  have  been  the  beginning  of  something  deeper 
on  Martin's  side  had  not  Bigourdin  taken  an  early 
opportunity  of  expounding  certain  matrimonial  schemes 
of  his  own  with  regard  to  Felise.  It  had  all  been 
arranged,  said  he,  many  years  ago.     His  good  neigh- 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  71 

bour,  Monsieur  Viriot,  marchand  de  vin  en  gros — oh,  a 
man  everything  there  was  of  the  most  soUd,  had  an 
only  son ;  and  he,  Bigourdin,  had  an  only  niece  for 
whom  he  had  set  apart  a  substantial  dowry.  A 
hundred  thousand  francs.  There  were  not  many  girls 
in  Brantome  who  could  hide  as  much  as  that  in  their 
bridal  beds.  It  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  that  Lucien  should  marry  Felise — nay,  more,  an 
ordinance  of  the  bon  Dieu.  Lucien  had  been  absent 
some  time  doing  his  military  service.  That  would 
soon  be  over.  He  would  enter  his  father's  business. 
The  formal  demand  in  marriage  would  be  made,  and 
they  would  celebrate  the  fiangailles  before  the  end  of 
the  year. 

"  Does  Mademoiselle  Felise  care  for  Lucien  ?  "  asked 
Martin. 

Bigourdin  shrugged  his  mountainous  shoulders. 

"  He  does  not  displease  her.  What  more  do  we 
want  ?  She  is  a  good  Httle  girl,  and  knows  that  she 
can  entrust  her  happiness  to  my  hands.  And  Lucien 
is  a  capital  fellow.     They  will  be  very  happy." 

Thus  he  warned  a  sensitive  Martin  off  philandering 
paths,  and,  with  his  French  adroitness,  separated 
youth  and  maiden  as  much  as  possible.  And  this  was 
not  difficult.  You  see  Felise  acted  as  manageress  in 
the  Hotel  des  Grottes,  and  her  activities  were  innumer- 
able. There  was  the  kitchen  to  be  ruled,  an  eye  to 
be  kept  on  the  handle  of  the  basket — if  it  danced  too 
much,  according  to  the  French  phrase,  the  cook  was 
exceeding  her  commission  of  a  sou  in  the  franc  ;  there 
were  the  bedrooms  and  clean,  dry  linen  to  be  seen  to, 
and  the  doings  of  Polydore,  the  unclean,  and  of 
Baptiste,  the  haphazard,  to  be  watched ;  there  were 
daily  bills  to  be  made  out,  accounts  to  be  balanced, 
impatient  bagmen  to  be  cajoled  or  rebuked  ;  orders  for 
pate  de  foie  gras  and  truffles  to  be  dispatched — the 
Hotel  des  Grottes  had  a  famous  manufactory  of  these 
delights,  and  during  autumn  and  winter  supported  a 


72  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

hive  of  workers,  and  the  shelves  in  the  cool  storehouse 
were  filled  with  appetizing  jars  ;  and  then  the  laundry, 
and  the  mending,  and  the  pohshing  of  the  famous 
bathroom — ma  foi,  there  was  enough  to  keep  one  small 
manageress  busy.  Like  a  bon  hotelier,  Bigourdin  him- 
self supervised  all  these  important  matters,  ordering 
and  controlhng,  as  an  administrator,  but  Felise  was  the 
executive.  And  like  an  obedient  and  happy  Httle 
executive  Felise  did  not  notice  a  subtle  increase  in 
her  duties.  Nor  did  Martin,  honest  soul,  in  whose 
eyes  a  betrothed  maiden  was  as  sacred  as  a  married 
woman,  remark  any  change  in  facihties  of  intercourse. 
For  him  she  flashed,  a  gracious  figure,  across  the  half- 
real  tapestry  of  his  present  Hfe.  A  kindly  word,  a 
smiling  glance,  on  passing,  sufficed  for  the  maintenance 
of  his  pleasant  understanding  with  Felise.  For  femi- 
nine companionship  of  a  stimulating  kind  there  was 
always  Corinna.  For  mascuhne  society  he  had 
Bigourdin  and  his  cronies  of  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,  to 
whom  he  was  introduced  in  his  professorial  dignity. 

It  was  there,  at  the  caf6  table,  in  the  midst  of  the 
notables  of  the  little  town,  that  he  learned  many 
things  either  undreamed  of  or  uncared  for  during  his 
narrow  hfe  at  Margett's  Universal  College.  It  startled 
him  to  find  himself  in  the  company  of  men  passionately 
patriotic.  Hitherto,  as  an  EngUshman  Hving  remote 
from  Continental  thought,  he  had  taken  patriotism  for 
granted ;  his  interest  in  poKtics  had  been  mild  and 
parochial ;  he  had  adopted  a  vague  conservative 
outlook  due,  most  likely,  to  antipathy  to  his  democratic 
Swiss  relatives,  who  sent  eight  pounds  to  the  relief  of 
his  impoverished  mother,  and  to  a  nervous  shrinking 
from  democracy  in  general  as  represented  by  his  pupils. 
But  in  this  backwater  of  the  world  he  encountered  a 
poUtical  spirit  intensely  alive.  Vital  principles  formed 
the  subject  of  easy  yet  stern  discussion.  Beneath  the 
calm  of  peaceful  commerce  and  agriculture  he  felt  the 
pulse  of  France  throbbing  in  fierce  determination  to 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  73 

maintain  her  national  existence.  Every  man  had 
been  a  soldier  ;  some  of  the  elders  had  fought  in  1870, 
and  those  who  had  grown-up  sons  were  the  fathers  of 
soldiers.  Martin  reaUzed  that  whereas  in  England,  in 
time  of  peace,  the  private  soldier  was  tolerated  as  a 
picturesque,  good-natured,  harum-scarum  sort  of  fellow, 
the  piou-piou  in  France  was  an  object  of  universal 
affection.  The  army  was  woven  into  the  whole  web 
of  French  life  ;  it  permeated  the  whole  of  French 
thought ;  it  coloured  the  whole  of  French  sentiment. 
It  was  not  a  machine  of  blood  and  iron  as  in  Germany. 
It  was  the  soul-sacrifice  of  the  nation.  "  Vive  la 
France!"  meant  "  Vive  I'Armee!"  And  that  mere 
expression  "  Vive  la  France !  " — how  often  had  he 
heard  it  during  his  short  sojourn  in  the  country.  He 
cudgelled  his  brains  to  remember  when  he  had  heard 
a  corresponding  cry  in  England.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  none.  There  was  no  need  for  one. 
England  would  Hve  as  long  as  the  sea  girded  her  shores 
and  Britannia  ruled  the  waves.  We  need  not  trouble 
our  EngHsh  heads  any  further.  But  in  France  condi- 
tions were  different.  From  the  Vosges  to  the  Bay  of 
Biscay,  from  Calais  to  the  Mediterranean  every  stroke 
on  a  Krupp  anvil  reverberated  through  France. 

"  Ca  vient — when,  no  one  knows,"  said  the  comfort- 
able citizens,  "  but  it  is  coming  sooner  or  later,  and 
then  we  shed  the  last  drop  of  our  blood.  We  are 
prepared.  We  have  learned  our  lesson.  There  will 
never  be  another  Sedan." 

They  said  it  soberly,  Hke  men  whose  eyes  were  set 
on  an  implacable  foe.  And  Martin  knew  that  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  comfortable  citizens 
held  the  same  sober  and  stern  discourse.  Every  inch 
of  French  soil  was  dear  to  these  men,  and  to  guard  it 
they  would  shed  the  last  drop  of  their  blood. 

Corinna  informed  of  these  conversations  said  Hghtly  : 

"  You  haven't  hved  among  them  as  long  as  I  have 
It's  just  their  Gallic  way  of  talking." 


74  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

But  Martin  knew  better.  His  horizons  were  expand- 
ing. He  began,  too,  to  conceive  a  curious  love  for  a 
country  so  earnest,  whose  speech  was  the  first  that  he 
had  spoken.  He  had  a  vague  impression  that  he  was 
learning  to  live  a  corporate  instead  of  an  individual 
Hfe.  When  he  tried  to  interpret  these  feehngs  to 
Corinna  she  cried  out  upon  him. 

"  To  hear  you  talk  one  would  think  you  hadn't  any 
English  blood.     Isn't  England  good  enough  for  you  ?  " 

"  It's  because  I'm  beginning  to  understand  France 
that  I'm  beginning  to  understand  England,"  he  rephed 
in  his  grave  way. 

"  Like  practising  on  the  maid  before  you  dare  make 
love  to  the  mistress." 

"  Very  possibly,"  said  he,  digging  the  blunt  end  of 
his  fork  into  the  coarse  salt — they  were  at  lunch. 
"  To  put  it  another  way — if  you  learn  Latin  you  learn 
the  structure  of  all  languages." 

"  What  a  regular  schoolmaster's  simile,"  she  re- 
marked scornfully. 

He  flushed.     "  I'm  no  longer  a  schoolmaster,"  said  he. 

"  Since  when  ?  " 

"  Since  I  came  here." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  not  going  back  to  it  ?  " 

He  paused  before  replying  to  the  sudden  question 
which  accident  had  occasioned.  To  himself  he  had 
put  it  many  times  of  late,  but  hitherto  had  evaded  a 
definite  answer.     Now,  with  a  thrill,  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Never,"  said  he. 

She  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork  and  stared  at  him. 
Was  he,  after  all,  taking  this  fool  journey  seriously? 
To  her  it  had  been  a  reckless  adventure,  a  stolen  trip 
into  lotus-land,  with  the  knowledge  of  an  inevitable 
return  to  common  earth  eating  into  her  heart.  Even 
now  she  dreaded  to  ask  how  much  of  her  twenty 
pounds  had  been  spent.  But  she  knew  that  the  day 
of  doom  was  approaching.  She  could  not  live  without 
money.     Neither  could  he. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  75 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  for  a  living  ?  " 

"  God  knows,"  said  he.  "  I  don't.  Anyhow,  the 
squirrel  has  escaped  from  liis  cage,  and  he's  not  going 
back  to  it." 

"  What's  he  going  to  do  ?  Sit  on  a  tree  and  eat 
nuts  ?     Oh,  mjT'  dear  Martin  !  " 

"  There  are  worse  fates,"  he  replied,  answering  her 
laughter  with  a  smile.  "  At  any  rate,  he  has  God's 
free  universe  aU  around  him." 

"  That's  all  very  weU  ;  but  analogies  are  futile.  You 
aren't  a  squirrel,  and  you  can't  live  on  acorns  and 
east  wind.  You  must  Uve  on  bread  and  beef.  How 
are  you  going  to  get  them  ?  " 

"  rU  get  them  somehow,"  said  he.  "  I'm  waiting 
for  Fortinbras." 

To  this  determination  had  he  come  after  three  weeks' 
residence  in  Brantome.  The  poor-spirited  di-udge  had 
drunk  of  the  waters  of  hfe  and  was  a  drudge  no  more. 
He  had  passed  into  another  world.  Far  remote,  as 
down  the  clouded  vista  of  long  memory,  he  saw  the 
bare,  hopeless  classroom  and  the  pale  pinched  faces 
of  the  students.  All  that  belonged  to  a  vague  past. 
It  had  no  concern  with  the  present  or  the  future.  How 
he  had  arrived  at  this  state  of  being  he  could  not  tell. 
The  change  had  been  wrought  little  by  little,  day  by 
day.  The  ten  years  of  his  servitude  had  been  blacked 
out.  He  had  the  thrilling  sense  of  starting  life  afresh 
at  thirty,  as  he  had  started  it  a  boy  of  twenty.  There 
was  so  much  more  in  the  open  world  than  he  had 
dreamed  of.  If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  he  could 
go  forth  into  it,  knapsack  on  shoulders,  and  seek  his 
fortune ;  and  every  step  he  took  would  carry  him 
farther  from  Margett's  Universal  College. 

"  When  is  that  fraud  of  a  Marchani  de  Bonheur 
coming  ?  "  Corinna  cried  impatiently. 

She  put  the  question  to  Bigourdin  the  next  time 
she  met  him  alone — which  was  after  the  meal,  on 
the  terrasse.    He  could  not   tell.     Perhaps   to-night, 


76  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

to-morrow,  the  week  after  next.  Fortinbras  came  and 
went  like  the  wind,  without  warning.  Did  Made- 
moiselle Corinne  desire  his  arrival  so  much  ? 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him  here  before  I  go." 

"  Before  you  go  ?  You  are  leaving  us,  made- 
moiselle ?  " 

She  laughed  at  his  look  of  dismay.  "  I  can't  stay 
idling  here  for  ever." 

"  But  you  have  been  here  no  time  at  all,"  said  he. 
"  Just  a  Uttle  bird  that  comes  and  perches  on  this 
balustrade,  looks  this  side  and  that  side  out  of  its 
bright  eyes,  and  then  flies  away." 

"  Out,  c'est  comme  ga,"  said  Corinna. 

"  Voild ! "  He  sighed  and  turned  to  throw  his 
broad-brimmed  hat  on  a  neighbouring  table.  "  That's 
the  worst  of  our  infamous  trade  of  hotel-keeping.  You 
meet  sincere  and  candid  souls  whose  friendship  you 
crave,  but  before  you  have  time  to  win  it,  away  they 
go  like  the  Uttle  bird,  for  ever  and  ever  out  of  your 
life." 

"  But  you  have  won  my  friendship.  Monsieur 
Bigourdin,"  said  Corinna,  with  rising  colour. 

"  You  are  very  gracious,  Mademoiselle  Corinne. 
But  why  take  it  from  me  as  soon  as  it  is  given  ?  " 

"  I  don't,"  she  retorted.  "  I  shall  always  remember 
you  and  your  kindness." 

"  Ate,  aie!'  You  know  our  saying:  Tout  passe,  tout 
casse,  tout  lasse.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,  the  way 
of  humanity.  We  say  that  we  will  remember — but 
other  things  come  to  dim  memory,  to  blunt  sentiment 
— enfin,  we  forget,  not  because  we  want  to,  but  because 
we  must." 

"  If  we  must,"  laughed  Corinna,  "  you'll  forget  our 
friendship  too.     So  we'U  be  quits." 

"  Never,  mademoiselle,"  he  cried  iUogically.  "  Your 
friendship  will  always  be  precious  to  me.  You  came 
into  this  dull  house  with  your  youth,  your  freshness, 
your  wit,  and  your  charm — different  from  the  ordinary 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  77 

hotel  guest,  you  have  joined  my  little  intimate  family 
life — Felise,  for  example,  adores  you — were  it  not  for 
her  mother  you  would  be  her  ideal.     And  I " 

"  And  you,  Monsieur  Bigourdin  ?  " 

Her  voice  had  the  fiat  sound  of  a  wooden  mallet 
striking  a  peg.  The  huge  man  bowed  with  considerable 
dignity. 

"  I  shall  miss  terribly  all  that  you  have  brought  into 
this  house,  mademoiselle," 

Corinna  relaxed  into  a  mocking  smile. 

"  Fortinbras  warned  us  that  you  were  a  poet, 
Monsieur  Bigourdin." 

"  Every  honest  man  whose  eyes  can  see  the  beautiful 
things  of  life  must  be  a  poet  of  a  kind.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  scribble  verses." 

"  But  do  you  ?     Do  you  write  verse  ?  " 

"  Jamais  de  la  vie,"  he  declared  stoutly.  "  An 
hStelier  like  me  count  syllables  on  his  fingers  ?  Ah, 
non  !  I  can  make  excellent  pate  de  foie  gras — no  one 
better  in  Perigord — but  I  should  make  execrable 
verses.     Ah,  voyons  done!" 

He  laughed  lustily,  and  Corinna  laughed  too ;  and 
Martin,  appearing  on  the  veranda,  asked  and  learned 
the  reason  of  their  mirth.  After  a  word  or  two  their 
host  left  them,  fanning  himself  with  his  great  hat. 

"  What  on  earth  brought  you  here  ?  "  said  Corinna. 
"  I  was  having  the  flirtation  of  my  life." 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  WEEK  passed,  and  Fortinbras  did  not  come.  Corinna 
wrote  to  him.     He  replied  : 

"  Have  patience,  cultivate  Martin's  sense  of  humour, 
and  make  FeUse  give  you  lessons  in  domestic  economy. 
The  cook  might  instruct  you  in  the  various  processes 
whereby  eggs  are  rendered  edible,  and  you  might  also 
learn  how  to  launder  clothes  without  disaster  to  flesh 
or  Knen.  I  am  afraid  you  are  wasting  your  time. 
Remember  you're  not  hke  Martin,  who  needs  this  rest 
to  get  his  soul  into  proper  condition.  I  will  come 
whither  my  heart  draws  me — for  I  yearn  to  see  my 
little  Felise — as  soon  as  I  am  allowed  to  do  so  by  my 
manifold  avocations  and  responsibilities." 

Corinna,  in  a  fury,  handed  the  letter  to  Martin  and 
asked  him  what  he  thought  of  it.  He  replied  that,  in 
his  opinion,  Fortinbras  gave  excellent  advice.  Corinna 
declared  Fortinbras  to  be  an  overbearing  and  sarcastic 
pig,  and  rated  Martin  for  standing  by  and  seeing  her 
insulted. 

"  You  gave  him  five  francs  for  putting  you  on  the 
road  to  happiness,"  he  replied.  "  He  has  done  his 
best,  and  seems  to  keep  on  doing  it — without  extra 
charge.  I  think  you  ought  to  be  grateful.  His 
suggestions  are  full  of  sense." 

"  Confound  his  suggestions,"  cried  Corinna. 

"  I  think  our  friend  Bigourdin  would  be  pleased  if 
you  followed  them." 

"  I  don't  see  what  our  friend  Bigourdin  has  to  do 
with  it." 

"  He  would  give  you  all  the  help  he  could.     A 

78 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  79 

Frenchman    likes    a    woman    to    know    how   to    do 
things." 

"  I  won't  wash  clothes,"  said  Corinna  defiantly. 

"  You  might  rise  superior  to  a  brand  of  soap," 
retorted  Martin. 

She  turned  her  back  on  him  and  went  her  way.  His 
gross  sense  of  humour  required  no  cultivation.  It  was 
a  poisonous  weed.  And  what  did  he  mean  by  dragging 
in  Bigourdin  ?  She  would  never  speak  to  Martin 
again,  after  his  disgraceful  innuendo.  It  took  the 
flavour  from  the  sympathetic  relations  that  had  been 
set  up  between  her  host  and  herself  during  the  past 
week.  A  twinge  of  conscience  exacerbated  her  anger 
against  Martin.  She  certainly  had  encouraged  Bigour- 
din to  fuller  professions  of  friendship  than  is  usual 
between  landlord  and  guest.  The  fresh  flowers  he 
had  laid  by  her  plate  at  every  meal  she  wore  in  her 
dress.  Only  the  night  before  she  had  ever  so  deUcately 
hinted  that  Martin  was  capable  of  visiting  the  Cafe  de 
rUnivers  \\dthout  a  bear-leader,  and  the  huge  and 
poetical  man  had  sat  with  her  in  the  moonlight,  and 
in  terms  of  picturesque  philosophy  had  exposed  to  her 
the  barren  loneUness  of  his  soul.  She  had  enjoyed 
the  evening  prodigiously,  and  was  looking  forward 
to  other  evenings  equally  exhilarating.  Now  Martin 
had  spoiled  it  all.  She  called  Martin  names  that 
would  have  shocked  Mrs.  Hastings  and  caused 
her  father  to  mention  her  specially  during  family 
prayers. 

Then  she  defended  herself  proudly.  Who  was  there 
to  talk  to  in  that  Nowhere  of  a  place  ?  The  con- 
versation of  Felise  stimulated  as  much  as  that  of  a 
ten-year-old  child.  Martin  she  had  sucked  dry  as  a 
bone  during  their  seven  weeks'  companionship.  He, 
of  course,  could  hobnob  with  men  at  the  cafe.  He 
also  had  picked  up  a  curious  assortment  of  acquaintance 
male  and  female,  in  the  town  and  had  acquired  a 
knack  of  conversing  with  them.     A  day  or  two  ago 


8o  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

she  had  come  upon  him  in  one  of  the  rock  dwellings 
discussing  politics  with  a  desperate  villain  who  worked 
in  the  freestone  quarries,  while  the  frowsy  mistress  of 
the  house  lavished  on  him  smiles  and  the  horrible  grey 
wine  of  the  country  which  he  drank  out  of  a  bowl. 
She,  Corinna,  had  no  cafe ;    nor  could  she  find  any- 
thing in  common  with  desperadoes  of  quarrymen  and 
their  frowsy  wives  ;    to  enter  their  houses  savoured 
of   district   visiting,    a   philanthropic   practice   which 
she  abhorred  with  all  the  abhorrence  of  a  parson's 
rebellious    daughter.       Where   was    she    to   look    for 
satisfying    human    intercourse  ?     She    knew    enough 
of  the  French  middle-class  manners  and  customs  to  be 
aware  that  she  might  Uve  in  Brantome  a  thousand 
years   before   one   lady   would   caU   on   her — a   mere 
question  of  social  code  as  to  which  she  had  no  cause 
for   resentment.     But   she   craved   the   stimulus,   the 
give  and  take  of  talk,  such  as  had  been  her  daily  food 
in  Paris  for  the  last  three  years.     Huge,  not  at  all 
commonplace,  but  somewhat  of  an  enigma,  Bigourdin 
lumbered  on  to  her  horizon.     His  first-hand  knowledge 
of   men  and  things  was  confined  to  Brantome  and 
Lyons.     But  with  that  knowledge  he  had  pierced  deep 
and  wide.     He  had  read  Httle  but  astonishingly.     He 
had  a  grasp   of  European,   even  of  English  internal 
affairs   that  disconcerted  Corinna,  who  airily  set  out 
to  expound  to  him  the  elements  of  world-pohtics.     Two 
phases  of  French  poetry  formed  an  essential  factor  of 
his  intellectual  Hfe — the  fifteenth-century  amorists  and 
the  later  romanticists.     He  could  quote  Victor  Hugo, 
Alfred  de  Musset,  Theodore  de  Banville  by  the  mile. 
When  stirred  he  had  in  his  voice  disquieting  tones.     He 
recited   the   Chanson   de   Fortunio   and   the   Chanson 
de  Barherine  in  the  moonlight,  and  Corinna  caught 
her  breath  and  felt  a  shiver  down  her  spine.     It  was  a 
new  sensation  for  Corinna  to  feel  shivers  down  her 
spine  at  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  8l 

"  Mais  j'aime  irop  pour  que  je  die 
Qui  j'ose  aimer, 
Et  je  veux  mourir  pour  ma  mie 
Sans  la  nommer." 

She  went  to  bed  with  the  words  singing  in  her  ears  like 
music. 

Altogether  it  was  much  more  comforting  to  talk  to 
Bigourdin  than  to  take  lessons  in  household  manage- 
ment from  Felise. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  she  plucked  up  courage 
•  and  demanded  of  Martin  an  account  of  his  stewardship. 
He  tried  to  evade  the  task  by  flourishing  in  her  face  a 
bundle  of  notes.  They  had  heaps,  said  he,  to  go  on 
with.  But  Corinna  pressed  her  inquiry  with  feminine 
insistence.  Had  he  kept  any  memoranda  of  expendi- 
ture ?  Of  course  methodical  Martin  had  done  so. 
Where  was  it  ?  Reluctantly  he  drew  a  soiled  notebook 
from  his  pocket,  and  side  by  side  at  a  little  table  on 
the  veranda,  her  fair  hair  brushing  his  dark  cheek, 
they  added  up  the  figures  and  apportioned  and  divided 
and  eventually  struck  the  balance.  Corinna  was  one 
franc  seventy-five  centimes  in  Martin's  debt.  She  had 
not  one  penny  in  the  world.  She  had  one  franc 
seventy-five  centimes  less  than  nothing.  She  rose 
white-lipped. 

"  You  ought  to  have  told  me." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Martin.  "  There's  plenty  of  money 
in  the  common  stock." 

"  There  never  was  any  such  thing  as  a  common 
stock." 

"  I  thought  there  was,"  said  Martin.  "  I  thought 
we  had  arranged  it  with  Fortinbras.  Anyhow,  there's 
one  now." 

"  There  isn't,"  she  cried  indignantly.  "  Do  you 
suppose  I'm  going  to  live  on  your  money  ?  What 
kind  of  a  girl  do  you  take  me  f or  ?  " 

"  An  unconventional  one,"  said  Martin. 

9 


82  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  But  not  dishonourable.  To  assert  my  freedom  and 
live  by  myself  in  Paris  and  run  about  France  alone 
with  you  may  be  unconventional.  But  for  a  girl  to 
accept  support  from  a  man  when — when  she  gives  him 
nothing  in  return — is  a  different  thing  altogether." 

They  argued  for  some  time,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
argument  neither  was  convinced.  She  upbraided. 
Martin  ought  to  have  struck  a  daily  balance.  He 
continued  to  put  forwcird  the  plea  of  the  common 
stock  to  which  she  had  apparently  given  her  tacit 
agreement. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Martin  at  last,  "  there's  no 
dishonour  in  a  loan.  You  can  give  me  an  lOU 
That's  a  legal  document." 

"  But  how  do  you  suppose  I  am  ever  going  to  pay 

you  ? " 

"  That,  my  dear  Corinna,"  said  he,  "  is  a  matter 
which  doesn't  interest  me  in  the  least." 

She  turned  on  him  furiously.  "  Do  you  know  what 
you  are  ?  Would  you  hke  me  to  tell  you  ?  You're 
the  most  utterly  selfish  man  in  the  wide,  wide  world." 

She  flung  away  through  the  empty  salle  d  manger, 
and  left  Martin  questioning  the  eternal  hills  of  the 
Limousin.  "  I  offer,"  said  he,  in  effect,  "  to  share  my 
last  penny,  in  all  honour  and  comradeship,  with  a 
young  person  of  the  opposite  sex  whom  I  have  always 
treated  with  the  utmost  dehcacy,  who  is  absolutely 
nothing  to  me,  who  would  scoff  at  the  idea  of  marrying 
me,  and  whom  I  would  no  more  think  of  marrying  than 
a  Fifth  of  November  box  of  fireworks,  who  has  heaped 
on  me  all  sorts  of  contumelious  epithets — I  offer,  I 
repeat,  to  divide  my  last  crust  with  her,  and  she  calls 
me  selfish.  Eternal  hills,  resolve  the  problem."  But 
the  hills  enfolded  themselves  majestically  in  their 
autumn  purple  and  deigned  no  answer  to  the  httle 
questionings  of  man. 

Unsuccessful,  he  strolled  through  dining-room  and 
vestibule,  and  at  the  hotel  entrance  came  upon  the 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  83 

ramshackle  hotel  omnibus  and  the  grey,  rawboned 
omnibus  horse  standing  unattended  and  forlorn.  To 
pass  the  time  the  latter  shivered  occasionally  in  order 
to  jingle  the  bells  on  his  collar  and  scatter  the  magenta 
fly-whisk  hung  between  his  eyes.  Martin  went  up  and 
patted  his  soft  muzzle  and  put  to  him  the  riddle.  But 
the  old  horse,  who  naturally  thought  that  these  over- 
tures heralded  a  supply  of  bodily  sustenance,  and,  in 
good  faith,  had  essayed  an  expectant  nibble,  at 
last  jerked  his  head  indignantly  and  refused  to 
concern  himself  with  such  insane  speculation.  Mar- 
tin was  struck  by  the  indifferent  attitude  of  hills 
and  horses  towards  the  queer  vagaries  of  the  human 
female. 

Then  from  the  doorway  sallied  forth  a  flushed 
Corinna,  booted  and  spurred  for  adventure.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  a  woman's  boots  and  spurs  are  on  her 
head  and  not  on  her  feet.  Corinna  wore  the  little  hat 
with  the  defiant  pheasant  feather  which  she  had  not 
put  on  since  her  last  night  in  Paris.  A  spot  of  red 
burned  angrily  on  each  cheek.  Martin,  accustomed  to 
ask,  "  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  was  on  the  point  of 
putting  the  mechanical  question  when  he  was  checked 
by  one  of  her  hard  glances.  Obviously  she  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  him.  She  passed  him  by  and 
walked  down  the  hill  at  a  brisk  pace.  Martin  watched 
her  retreating  figure  until  a  turn  in  the  road  hid  it 
from  his  view,  and  then  retiring  into  the  house  went 
up  to  his  room  and  buried  himself  in  Montaigne,  to 
which  genial  author,  it  may  be  remembered,  he  had 
been  recommended  by  Fortinbras. 

They  did  not  meet  till  dinner,  when  she  greeted  him, 
all  smiles.  She  apologized  for  wayward  temper,  and 
graciously  offered,  should  she  need  money,  to  accept 
a  small  loan  for  a  short  period.  What  her  errand  had 
been  when  she  set  forth  in  her  defiant  hat  she  did  not 
inform  him.  He  shrewdly  surmised  she  had  gone  to 
the  Posies  et  Tele'graphes  in  the  town ;    but  he  was 


84  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

within  a  million  miles  of  guessing  that  she  had 
dispatched  a  telegram  to  Bordeaux. 

The  meal  begun  under  these  fair  auspices  was 
enlivened  by  a  final  act  of  depravity  on  the  part  of  the 
deboshed  waiter,  Polydore.  He  had  of  late  given 
more  than  usual  dissatisfaction,  to  the  point  of  being 
replaced  by  the  chambermaid  and  Felise  when  fashion- 
able motordom  halted  at  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  Once 
Martin  himself,  beholding  through  the  ierrasse  doorway 
Felise  struggling  around  a  large  party  of  belated  and 
hungry  Americans,  came  to  her  assistance  and  lent  an 
amused  hand.  The  guests,  taking  him  for  a  deputy 
landlord,  explained  their  needs  in  bad  French.  Felise 
thanked  him  in  blushing  confusion,  while  Bigourdin, 
as  he  had  done  a  hundred  times  before,  gave  a  week's 
notice  to  Polydore,  who,  acting  scullion,  was  breaking 
plates  and  dishes  with  drunken  persistency.  And  now 
the  truth  is  out  as  regards  Polydore.  With  the  sins  of 
sloth,  ignorance,  and  uncleanliness  he  combined  the 
sin  of  drunkenness.  Polydore  was  nearly  always 
fuddled.  Yet  because  of  the  ties  of  blood,  the  foster- 
sisterdom  of  respective  grandmothers,  Bigourdin  had 
submitted  to  his  inefficiency.  Once  more  he  revoked 
the  edict  of  dismissal.  Once  more  Polydore  kept 
sober  for  a  few  days.  Then  once  more  he  backslided. 
And  he  backslided  irretrievably  this  night  at  dinner. 

All  went  fairly  well  at  first.  It  was  a  slack  night. 
Only  three  commis  voyageurs  sat  at  the  long  table,  and 
thus  there  were  only  seven  persons  on  whom  to  attend. 
It  is  true  that  his  eye  was  somewhat  glazed  and  his 
hand  somewhat  unsteady ;  but  under  the  awful 
searchlight  of  Bigourdin's  glance  he  nerved  himself  to 
his  task.  Soup  and  fish  had  been  served  satisfactorily  ; 
then  came  a  long,  long  wait.  Presently  Polydore 
reeled  in.  As  he  passed  by  Bigourdin's  table,  he  held 
up  the  finger  of  a  dirty  hand  bound  with  a  dripping 
bloody  rag. 

"  Pardon,  je  me  suis  coupe  le  doigf,"  he  announced 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  85 

thickly,  and  made  a  bee-line  to  Corinna,  with  the 
ostensible  purpose  of  removing  her  plate.  But  just  as 
he  reached  her,  the  extra  dram  that  he  must  have 
taken  to  fortify  himself  against  the  shock  of  his  wound 
took  full  effect.  He  staggered,  and  in  order  to  save 
himself  clutched  wildly  at  Corinna,  leaving  on  her  bare 
neck  his  disgusting  sanguine  imprint.  She  uttered  a 
sharp  cry,  and  simultaneously  Bigourdin  uttered  a  roar 
and,  rushing  across  the  room,  in  a  second  had  picked 
up  the  unhappy  varlet  in  his  giant  arms. 

"  Ah,  cochon  !  "  He  called  him  the  most  dreadful 
names,  shaking  him  as  Alice  shook  the  Red  Queen. 
"  En  voild  la  fin !  I  will  teach  you  to  dare  to  spread 
your  infamous  blood.  I  will  break  your  bones.  I  will 
crush  your  skull,  so  that  you'll  never  set  foot  here 
again.     Ah,  triple  cochon  !  " 

A  flaming  picture  of  gigantic  wrath,  he  swept  with 
him  to  the  door,  whence  he  hurled  him  bodily  forth. 
There  was  a  dull  thud.  And  that,  as  far  as  the  three 
commercial  travellers  (standing  agape  with  their 
napkins  at  their  throats),  Corinna,  Martin,  Felise,  and 
Bigourdin  were  concerned,  was  the  end  of  Polydore. 
Bigourdin,  with  an  agihty  surprising  in  so  huge  a  man, 
was  in  an  instant  by  Corinna's  side  with  finger-bowl 
full  of  water  and  a  clean  napkin. 

"  Mademoiselle,  that  such  a  bestial  personage  should 
have  dared  to  soil  your  purity  with  his  uncleanness 
makes  me  mad,  makes  me  capable  of  assassinating 
him.  Permit  me  to  remove  his  abominable  contami- 
nation." 

"  Let  me  do  it,  man  ancle,"  said  FeHse,  who  had  run 
across. 

But  Bigourdin  waved  her  aside,  and  with  reverent 
touch,  as  though  she  were  a  goddess,  he  cleansed 
Corinna.  She  underwent  the  operation  in  her  cool 
way,  and  when  it  was  over  smiled  her  thanks  at 
Bigourdin. 

"  Mademoiselle  Corinne,"  he  cried.     "  What  can  I 


86  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

say  to  you  ?  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  How  can  I 
repair  such  an  outrage  as  you  have  suffered  in  my 
house  ?  You  have  only  to  command  and  everything 
I  have  is  yours.  Command — insist — ordain."  He 
spread  his  aims  wide,  an  agony  of  appeal  in  his  eyes. 

Martin,  who  had  started  to  his  feet,  in  order  to  save 
Corinna  from  the  grip  of  the  intoxicated  Polydore,  but 
had    been    anticipated    by    the    impetuous    rush    of 
Bigourdin,  gazed  for  a  moment  or  two  at  his  host,  and 
then  gasped,  as  his  vision  pierced  into  the  huge  man's 
soul.     This  perfervid  declaration  was  not   the  good 
innkeeper's  apology  for  a  waiter's  disgusting  behaviour. 
It  was  the  blazing  indignation  of  a  real  man  at  the 
desecration  inflicted  by  another  on  the  body  of  the 
woman  he  loved.     A  shiver  of  comprehension  of  things 
he   had   never   comprehended   before   swept   through 
Martin  from  head  to  foot.     He  knew  with  absolute 
knowledge  that  should  she  rise  and,  with  a  nod  of  her 
head,  invite  Bigourdin  to  follow  her  to  the  veranda, 
she  could  be  mistress  absolute  of  Bigourdin's  destiny. 
He  held  his  breath,  for  the  first  time  in  his  dull  hfe 
conscious  of  the  meaning  of  love  of  women,  conscious 
of  eternal  drama.     He  looked  at  Corinna  smiling,  with 
ironic  curl  of  Hp,  up  at  the  impassioned  man.     And  he 
had  an  almost  physical  feeling  witliin  him  as  though 
his  heart  sank  hke  a  stone.     But  a  week  ago  she  had 
declared,  with  a  vulgarity  of  which  he  had  not  thought 
her  capable,  that  she  had  had  the  flirtation  of  her  hfe 
with   Bigourdin.     She   must   have   known   then,    she 
must   know   now   that   the   man   was   in   soul-strung 
earnest.     What  was  her  attitude  to  the  major  things 
of  Life  ?     His  brain  worked  swiftly.     If,  in  her  middle- 
class  Enghsh  snobbery,  she  despised  the  French  inn- 
keeper, why  did  she  admit  him  to  her  social  plane  on 
which  alone  flirtation — he  had  a  sensitive  gentleman's 
horror  of  the  word — was  possible  ?     If  she  accepted 
him  as  a  social  equal,  recognizing  in  him,  as  he,  Martin, 
recognized,  all  that  was  vital  in  modern  France — if  she 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  87 

accepted  him,  woman  accepting  man,  why  that  infernal 
smile  on  her  pretty  face  ?  I  must  give  you  to  under- 
stand that  Martin  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
women.  His  ignorance  placed  him  in  this  dilemma. 
He  watched  Corinna's  lips,  eager  to  hear  what  words 
would  issue  from  them. 

She  said  coolly  :  "So  long  as  this  really  is  the  end 
of  Polydore,  honour  is  satisfied." 

Bigourdin  stiffened  under  her  gaze,  and  collecting 
himself,  bowed  formally. 

"  As  to  that,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "  I  give  you 
my  absolute  assurance."  He  turned  to  the  com- 
mercial travellers.  "  Messieurs,  I  ask  your  pardon. 
There  will  not  be  any  further  delay.     Viens,  Fehse." 

And  landlord  and  niece  took  Polydore's  place  for  the 
rest  of  the  meal. 

"  Bigourdin's  a  splendid  fellow,"  said  Martin. 

Elbow  on  table  she  held  a  morsel  of  bread  to  her 
hps.     "  He  waits  so  well,  doesn't  he  ?  "  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  What  was  the  use  of 
arguing  with  a  being  with  totally  different  standards 
and  conception  of  values  ?  Some  Uttle  wisdom  he 
was  beginning  to  acquire.  He  spent  the  evening  at 
the  Cafe  de  Perigueux  with  Bigourdin,  who,  with  an 
unwonted  cloud  on  his  brow,  abused  the  Government 
in  atrabiliar  terms. 

The  next  morning  Corinna,  attired  in  her  daintiest 
wandered    off    to    sketch,  lonely    and    demure.     At 
dejeuner  she  made  a  pretence  of  eating,  and  entertained 
Martin  with  uninteresting  and  (to  him)  unintelHgible 
criticism    of    Parisian   actors.     Bigourdin    passed    a 
moment  or  two  of  professional  commonplace  at  the 
table  and  retired.     An  inexperienced  young  woman  of 
the  town,  with  the  chambermaid's  assistance,  replaced 
the  villain  of  last  night's  tragedy.     Corinna  continued 
her    hectic   conversation,  and   took   Httle   account   of 
Martin's   casual   remarks.     A  mind   even  less   subtle 


88  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

than  her  companion's  would  have  assigned  some 
nervous  disturbance  as  a  reason  for  such  feverish 
behaviour.  But  of  what  nature  the  disturbance  ? 
Vaguely  he  associated  it  with  the  Sundayfied  raiment. 
Could  it  be  that  she  intended,  without  drum  or  trumpet, 
to  fly  from  Brantome  ? 

"  By  the  way,  Martin,"  she  said  suddenly,  when  the 
last  wizened  grape  had  been  eaten,  "  have  you  ever 
taken  those  snapshots  of  the  Chateau  at  Bourdeilles  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't,"  said  he. 

"  You  promised  to  get  them  for  me." 

"  I'll  go  over  with  my  camera  one  of  these  days," 
said  Martin. 

"  That  means  aux  Calendes  grecques.  Why  not 
this  beautiful  afternoon  ?  " 

"  If  you'll  come  with  me." 

"  I've  rather  a  headache — or  I  would,"  said  Corinna. 
"As  it  is,  I  think  I'll  have  to  lie  down.  But  you  go. 
It  would  do  you  good." 

"  Aha,"  thought  Martin  astutely,  "  she  wants  to 
get  rid  of  me,  so  that  she  can  escape  by  the  afternoon 
train  to  Paris."     Aloud  he  said,  "  I'll  go  to-morrow." 

"  Why  not  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  don't  feel  like  it,"  said  he. 

Not  for  the  first  time  she  struck  an  obstinate  seam 
in  Martin.  He  turned  a  deaf  ear  both  to  her  cajolings 
and  her  reproaches.  To  some  degree  he  felt  himself 
responsible  for  Corinna,  as  a  man  must  do  who  acts 
as  escort  or  what  you  will  to  an  attractive  and  penniless 
young  woman.  If  she  had  decided  to  rush  home  to 
England,  it  was  certainly  his  duty  to  make  com- 
modious arrangements  for  her  journey. 

"  I'm  going  to  loaf  about  to-day,"  he  announced. 

"  Like  the  selfish  pig  you  always  are,"  said  Corinna. 

"  Comme  tu  veux,"  said  Martin  cheerfully. 
'  "  Can't  you  see,  I  want  you  to  go  away  for  the 
afternoon  ?  "  said  Corinna  angrily. 

"  Any  idiot  could  see  that,"  rephed  Martin. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  89 

"  Then  why  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  keep  an  eye  on  you." 

She  flushed  scarlet  and  rose  from  the  table.  "  All 
right.  Spy  as  much  as  you  Uke.  It  doesn't  matter  to  me." 

Once  more  she  left  him  with  a  dramatic  whirl  of 
skirts.  The  procedure,  having  become  monotonous, 
impressed  Martin  less  than  on  previous  occasions.  He 
even  smiled  the  conscious  smile  of  sagacity.  There 
was  something  up,  he  reflected,  with  Corinna,  or  he 
would  eat  his  hat.  She  contemplated  some  idiotic 
action.  Of  that  there  could  be  no  doubt.  It  behoved 
him,  as  the  only  protector  she  had  in  the  world,  to 
mount  guard.  He  mounted  guard,  therefore,  over 
cigarette  and  coffee  in  the  vestibule  of  the  hotel,  and 
for  some  time  held  entertaining  converse  with  Bigourdin 
on  the  decadence  of  Germanic  culture,  and  while 
Martin  was  expounding  the  futile  vulgarity  of  the 
spectacle  of  "  Sumurun  "  which,  on  one  of  his  rare  visits 
to  places  of  amusement,  he  had  witnessed  in  London, 
the  word  of  Corinna's  enigma  was  suddenly  and 
dustily  flashed  upon  him. 

From  a  dusty  two-seater  car  that  drew  up  noisily  at 
the  door  sprang  a  dusty  youth  with  a  reddish  face  and 
a  little  black  moustache. 

"  Is  Mademoiselle  Hastings  in  the  hotel  ?  "  he  asked 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  said  Bigourdin. 

"  WiU  you  kindly  let  her  know  that  I  am  here — 
Monsieur  Camille  Fargot  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Fargot,"  repeated  Bigourdin. 

"  Mademoiselle  Hastings  expects  me,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"  Bien,  monsieur,"  said  Bigourdin.  He  retired,  his 
duty  as  a  good  innkeeper  compelhng  him. 

Martin,  comfortable  in  his  cane  chair,  lit  another 
cigarette,  and  with  dispassionate  criticism  inspected 
Monsieur  Cajiiille  Fargot,  who  stood  in  the  doorway, 
his  back  to  the  vestibule,  frowning  resentfully  on  the 
little  car. 


go  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

This  then  was  the  word  of  Corinna's  enigma.  To 
summon  him  by  telegraph  had  been  the  object  of  her 
sortie  in  the  hat  with  the  pheasant's  plume.  To 
welcome  him  had  been  the  reason  of  her  festive  garb. 
In  order  to  hold  unembarrassed  converse  she  had  tried 
to  send  Martin  away  to  photograph  BourdeiUes.  This 
then  was  the  famous  student  in  medicine  who  was 
supposed  to  have  won  Corinna's  heart.  Martin,  who 
had  of  late  added  mightily  to  his  collection  of  rem^ark- 
able  men,  thought  him  as  commonplace  a  young 
student  as  he  had  encountered  since  the  far-off  days 
of  Margett's  Universal  College.  He  seemed  an  indeter- 
minate, fretful  person,  the  kind  of  male  over  whom 
Corinna  in  her  domineering  way  would  gallop  and 
re-gallop  until  she  had  trampled  the  breath  out  of 
him.  Being  a  kindly  soul,  he  began  to  feel  sorry  for 
Camille  Fargot.  He  was  tempted  to  go  up  to  the 
young  fellow,  lay  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  say : 
"  If  you  want  to  lead  a  happy  married  life,  my  dear 
chap,  drive  straight  back  to  Bordeaux  and  marry 
somebody  else."  By  doing  so  he  would  indubitably 
contribute  to  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest 
number  of  human  beings,  and  would  rank  among  the 
philanthropists  of  his  generation.  But  Martin  still 
retained  much  of  his  timidity,  and  he  also  had  a 
comradely  feeling  towards  Corinna.  If  she  regarded 
this  dusty  and  undistinguished  young  gentleman  as  the 
rock  of  her  salvation,  who  was  he,  powerless  himself  to 
indicate  any  other  rock  of  any  kind,  to  offer  objection? 

So  reahzing  the  absurdity  of  standing  on  guard 
against  so  insignificant  a  danger  as  Monsieur  Camille 
Fargot,  student  in  medicine,  and  not  desiring  to 
disconcert  Corinna  by  his  presence  should  she  descend 
to  the  vestibule  to  meet  her  lover,  he  courteously 
begged  pardon  of  the  frowning  young  man  who  blocked 
the  doorway,  and,  passing  by  him,  v/alked  meditatively 
down  the  road. 


CHAPTER  VII 

When  Martin  returned  to  the  hotel  a  couple  of  hours 
later  he  found  that  Monsieur  CamiUe  Fargot  had 
departed,  and  that  Corinna  had  entrenched  herself  in 
her  room.  On  the  wane  of  the  afternoon  she  sent 
word  to  any  whom  it  might  concern  that,  not  being 
hungry,  she  would  not  come  down  for  dinner.  To 
Felise,  anxious  concerning  her  health,  she  denied 
access.  Offers  of  comforting  nourishment  on  a  tray 
made  on  the  outer  side  of  the  closed  door  she  curtly  de- 
chned.     Mystery  enveloped  the  visit  of  Camille  Fargot. 

Martin  learned  from  a  perturbed  Bigourdin  that  she 
had  descended  immediately  after  he  had  left  the 
vestibule  and  had  led  Fargot  at  once  into  the  salon  de 
lecture,  a  moth-eaten  and  fusty  cubby-hole  in  which 
commercial  travellers  who  found  morbid  pleasure  in 
the  early  stages  of  asphyxiation  sometimes  wrote  their 
letters.  There  they  had  remained  for  some  time,  at 
the  end  of  which  Monsieur  Fargot — "il  avait  I' air 
hebeie,"  according  to  Baptiste,  a  witness  of  his  exit — 
had  issued  forth  alone  and  jumped  into  his  car  and 
sped  away,  presumably  to  Bordeaux.  After  a  moment 
or  two  Mademoiselle  Corinne,  in  her  turn,  had  emerged 
from  the  salon  de  lecture,  and  looking  very  haughty 
with  her  pretty  head  in  the  air — (again  Baptiste) — 
had  mounted  to  her  apartment. 

Those  were  the  bare  facts.  Bigourdin  narrated  them 
simply,  in  order  to  account  for  Corinna' s  non-appear- 
ance at  dinner.  With  admirable  taste  he  forbore  to 
question  Martin  as  to  the  relations  between  the  lady 
and  her  visitor.     Nor  did  Martin  enlighten  him.     An 

91 


92  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

art  student  in  Paris  like  Corinna  must  necessarily  have 
a  host  of  friends.  What  more  natural  than  that  one, 
finding  himself  in  her  neighbourhood,  should  make  a 
passing  call.  Such  was  the  tacit  convention  between 
Martin  and  Bigourdin.  But  the  breast  of  each  har- 
boured the  conviction  that  the  visit  had  not  been  a 
success  of  cordiality.  Bigourdin  exhibited  brighter 
spirits  that  night  at  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers.  He  played 
his  game  of  backgammon  with  Monsieur  le  Maire  and 
beat  him  exultantly.  Around  him  the  coterie  cursed 
the  Germans  for  forcing  the  three  years'  service  on 
France.  He  paused,  arm  uplifted  in  the  act  of  throwing 
the  dice. 

"  Never  mind.  They  seek  it — they  will  get  it. 
Vous  I'avez  voulu,  Georges  Dandin.  The  hon  Dieu  is 
on  our  side,  just  as  He  is  on  mine  in  this  battle  here. 
Vlan !  " 

The  dice  rattled  out  of  the  box  and  they  showed  the 
number  that  declared  him  the  winner.  A  great  shout 
arose.  The  honest  burgesses  cried  miracle.  Voyons, 
it  was  a  sign  from  heaven  to  France.  "  In  hoc  signo 
vinces ! "  cried  a  professor  at  the  Ecole  Normale,  and 
the  sober  company  had  another  round  of  bocks  to 
celebrate  the  augury. 

Martin  and  Bigourdin  walked  home  through  the 
narrow,  silent  streets  and  over  the  bridges.  There 
was  a  high  mnd  sharpened  by  a  breath  of  autumn 
which  ruffled  the  dim  surface  of  the  water ;  and 
overhead  a  rack  of  cloud  scudded  athwart  the  stars. 
A  Hght  or  two  far  up  the  gloomy  scaur  showed  the 
Hotel  des  Grottes.  Bigourdin  waved  his  hand  in  the 
darkness. 

"  It  is  beautiful,  all  this." 

Martin  assented  and  buttoned  up  his  overcoat. 

"  It  is  beautiful  to  me,"  said  Bigourdin,  "  because  it 
is  my  own  country.  I  was  born  and  bred  here,  and 
my  forefathers  before  me.  It  is  part  of  me,  like  my 
legs  and  my  arms.     I  don't  say  that  I  am  beautiful 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  93 

myself,"  he  added  with  a  laugh,  his  French  wit  seeing 
whither  logic  would  lead  him.  "  But  you  under- 
stand." 

"  Yes,"  said  Martin.  "  I  can  understand  in  a  way. 
But  I  have  no  little  corner  of  a  country  that  I  can  caill 
my  own.     I'm  not  the  son  of  any  soil." 

"  Perigord  is  very  fruitful  and  motherly.  She  will 
adopt  you,"  laughed  Bigourdin. 

"  But  I  am  English  of  the  EngUsh,"  replied  Martin 
"  Perigord  would  only  adopt  a  Frenchman." 

"  I  have  heard  it  said  and  I  believe  it  to  be  true," 
said  Bigourdin,  "  that  every  English  artist  has  two 
countries,  his  own  and  France.  And  it  is  the  artist 
who  expresses  the  national  feeling  and  not  the  univer- 
sity professors  and  philosophers  ;  and  all  true  men 
have  in  them  something  of  the  artistic,  something 
which  responds  to  the  artistic  appeal — I  don't  know  if 
I  make  myself  clear.  Monsieur  Martin — but  you  must 
confess  that  all  the  outside  inspiration  you  get  in 
England  in  your  art  and  your  literature  is  Latin.  I  say 
'  outside,'  for  naturally  you  draw  from  your  own 
noble  wells ;  but  for  nearly  a  generation  the  fin  esprit 
anglais,  in  all  its  delicacy  and  all  its  subtlety  and  all 
its  humanity  is  in  every  way  sympathetic  with  the 
fin  esprit  francais.     Is  not  that  true  ?  " 

"  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  said  Martin,  "  I 
suppose  it  is.  I  represent  the  more  or  less  educated 
middle-class  Englishman,  and,  so  far  as  I  am  aware  of 
any  influence  on  my  life,  everything  outside  of  England 
that  has  moved  me  has  been  French.  So  far  as  I 
know,  Germany  has  not  produced  one  great  work  of 
art  or  literature  during  the  last  forty  years." 

"  Voilcl ! "  cried  Bigourdin,  "  how  could  a  pig  of  a 
country  like  that  produce  works  of  art  ?  I  haven't 
been  to  BerHn.  But  I  have  seen  photographs  of  the 
Allee  des  Victoires.  Mon  cher,  it  is  terrible.  It  is 
sculpture  hewn  out  by  orders  of  the  drill-sergeant's 
cane.     Ah,  cochon   de  pays !    But   you    others,    you 


94  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

English — at  last,  after  our  hundred  years  of  peace, 
you  realize  how  bound  you  are  to  France.  You  realize 
— all  the  noble  souls  among  you — that  your  language 
is  half  Latin,  that  for  a  thousand  years,  even  before 
the  Norman  conquest,  all  your  culture,  all  the  sym- 
pathies of  your  poetry  and  your  art,  are  Roman — and 
Greek — enfin  are  Latin.  Your  wonderful  cathedrals — 
Gothic — do  you  get  them  from  Teutonic  barbarism  ? 
No.  You  get  them  from  the  Comacine  masters — the 
little  band  of  Latin  spiritualists  on  the  shores  of  Lake 
Como.  1  am  an  ignorant  man,  Monsieur  Martin,  but 
I  have  read  a  Uttle,  and  I  have  much  time  to  think, 
and — voild — those  are  my  conclusions.  In  the  great 
war  that  will  come " 

"  It  can't  come  in  our  time,"  said  Martin. 

"  No  ?  It  will  come  in  our  time.  And  sooner  than 
you  expect.  But  when  it  does  come,  all  that  is  noble 
and  spiritual  in  England  will  be  passionately  French 
in  its  sympathies.  Tiens,  mon  ami — "  He  planted 
himself  at  the  corner  of  the  dark  uphill  road  that  led 
to  the  hotel,  and  brought  his  great  hands  down  on 
Martin's  shoulders.  "  You  do  not  yet  understand. 
You  are  a  wonderful  race,  you  English.  But  if  you 
were  pure  Frisians,  like  the  German,  you  would  not  be 
where  you  are.  Nor  would  you  be  if  you  were  pure 
Latins.  What  has  made  you  invincible  is  the  inter- 
fusion since  a  thousand  years  of  all  that  is  best  in 
Frisian  and  Latin.  You  emerged  English  after  Chaucer 
— Saxon  bone  and  Latin  spirit.  That  is  why,  my 
friend,  you  hate  all  that  is  German.  That  is  why  you 
love  now  all  that  is  French.  And  that  is  why  we, 
nous  auires  Frangais,  feel  at  last  that  England  under- 
stands us  and  is  with  us." 

Having  thus  analysed  the  psychology  of  the  Entente 
Cordiale  in  terms  which,  proceeding  from  the  lips  of  a 
small  English  innkeeper,  would  have  astounded  Martin, 
Bigourdin  released  him,  and  together  they  mounted 
homewards. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  95 

"  I  was  forgetting,"  said  he,  as  he  bade  Martin 
good  night.  "  All  of  what  I  said  was  to  prove  that  if 
you  were  in  need  of  a  foster-mother,  Perigord  will  take 
you  to  her  bosom." 

"  ril  thmk  of  it,"  smiled  Martin. 

He  thought  of  it  for  five  minutes  after  he  had  gone 
to  bed,  and  then  fell  fast  asleep. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  was  awakened  by  a  great 
thundering  at  his  door.  Convinced  of  catastrophe  he 
leaped  to  his  feet  and  opened.  On  the  threshold  the 
urbane  figure  of  Fortinbras  confronted  him. 

"  You  ?  "  cried  Martin. 

"  Even  I.  Having  embraced  Felise,  breakfasted, 
washed  and  viewed  Brantome  proceeding  to  its  daily 
labours,  I  thought  it  high  time  to  arouse  you  from 
your  unlarklike  slumbers." 

Saying  this  he  passed  Martin,  and  drew  aside  the 
curtains  so  that  the  morning  hght  flooded  the  room. 
He  was  still  attired  in  his  sober  black  with  the  avoue's 
white  tie  which  bore  the  traces  of  an  all-night  journey. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  the  bed,  while  Martin,  in  pyjamas 
and  barefoot,  took  up  an  irresolute  position  on  the 
cold  boards. 

"  I  generally  get  up  a  bit  later,"  said  Martin  with 
an  air  of  apology. 

"So  I  gather  from  my  excellent  brother-in-law. 
Well,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  how  are  you  faring  in 
Arcadia  ?  " 

"  Capitally,"  replied  Martin.  "  I've  never  felt  so 
fit  in  my  hfe.     But  I'm  jolly  glad  you've  come." 

"  You  want  another  consultation.  I  am  ready  to 
give  you  one.  The  usual  fee,  of  course.  Oh,  not 
now  !  "  As  Martin  turned  to  the  dressing-table  where 
lay  a  small  heap  of  money,  he  raised  a  soft,  arresting 
hand.  "  The  hour  is  too  early  for  business  even  in 
France.  I  have  no  doubt  Corinna  is  equally  anxious 
to  consult  me.     How  is  she  ?  " 

"  Much  the  same  as  usual,"  said  Martin. 


96  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  By  which  you  would  imply  that  she  belongs  to  the 
present  stubborn  and  stiff-necked  generation  of  young 
Englishwomen.     I  hope  you  haven't  suffered  unduly." 

"  I  ?  Oh,  Lord,  no !  "  Martin  replied,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Corinna  goes  her  way  and  I  go  mine.  Occasionally, 
when  there's  only  one  way  to  go — well,  it  isn't  hers." 

"  You've  put  your  foot  down." 

' '  At  any  rate  Corinna  hasn't  put  her  foot  down  on 
me.  I  think,"  said  Martin,  rubbing  his  thinly  clad 
sides  meditatively,  "  my  journey  with  Corinna  has  not 
been  without  profit  to  myself.     I've  made  a  discovery." 

He  paused. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  let  me 
hear  it." 

"  I've  found  out  that  I  needn't  be  trampled  on 
unless  I  like." 

Fortinbras  passed  his  hand  over  his  broad  forehead 
and  his  silver  mane,  and  regarded  the  young  man 
acutely.  Whatever  possibilities  he  might  have  seen 
of  a  romantic  attachment  between  the  pair  of  derelicts 
no  longer  existed.  Martin  had  taken  cool  measure  of 
Corinna,  and  was  not  in  the  least  in  love  with  her.  The 
Dealer  in  Happiness  smiled  in  his  benevolent  way. 

"  Although  in  your  present  ruffled  and  unshorn  state 
you're  not  looking  your  best,  you're  a  different  man 
from  my  cHent  of  two  months  ago." 

"  Thanks  to  your  advice,"  said  Martin,  "  my  three 
weeks'  journey  put  me  into  gorgeous  health,  and  here 
I've  been  living  in  clover." 

"  And  the  environment  does  not  seem  to  be  unfavour- 
able to  moral  and  intellectual  development." 

"  That's  Bigourdin  and  his  friends,"  cried  Martin. 
"  He's  a  splendid  fellow,  a  liberal  education." 

"  He's  an  apostle  of  sanity,"  replied  Fortinbras,  with 
an  approving  nod.  "  Meanwhile  sanity  would  not 
recommend  your  standing  about  in  this  chilly  air  with 
nothing  on.  I  will  converse  with  you  while  you 
dress." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  97 

"I'll  have  my  tub  at  once,"  said  Martin. 

He  disappeared  into  the  famous  bathroom,  and  after 
a  few  moments  returned  and  made  his  toilet  while  he 
gossiped  with  Fortinbras  of  the  wisdom  he  had  learned 
at  the  Cafe  de  TUnivers. 

"  It's  funny,"  said  he,  "  but  I  can't  make  Corinna 
see  it." 

"  She's  Parisianized,"  repUed  Fortinbras.  "  In  Paris 
we  see  things  in  false  perspective.  All  the  little  finnicky 
people  of  the  hour,  artists,  writers,  politicians,  are  so 
close  to  us  that  they  loom  up  like  mountains.  You 
learn  more  of  France  in  a  week  at  Brantome  than  in  a 
year  at  Paris,  because  here  there's  nothing  to  confuse 
your  sense  of  values.  Happy  young  man  to  live  in 
Brantome  !  " 

He  sighed,  and  seeing  that  Martin  was  ready  rose 
and  accompanied  him  downstairs.  Felise,  fresh  and 
dainty,  with  heightened  colour  and  gladness  in  her 
eyes  due  to  the  arrival  of  the  adored  father,  poured 
out  Martin's  coffee.  They  were  old-fashioned  in  the 
Hotel  des  Grottes,  and  drank  coffee  out  of  generous 
bowls  without  handles,  beside  which,  on  the  plate, 
rested  great  spoons  for  such  sops  of  bread  as  might  be 
thro^vn  therein. 

"It  is  as  you  like  it  ?  "  she  asked  in  her  pretty, 
clipped  EngUsh. 

"  It's  always  the  best  coffee  I  have  ever  drunk," 
smiled  Martin.  He  looked  up  at  Fortinbras  lounging 
in  the  wooden  chair  usually  occupied  by  Corinna. 
"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Fortinbras,  that  Mademoiselle 
Felise  has  so  spoilt  me  with  food  and  drink  that  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  face  an  EngUsh  lodging-house 
meal  again  ?  '_' 

Fortinbras  passed  his  arm  round  his  daughter's 
waist  and  drew  her  to  him  affectionately. 

"  She  would  spoil  me  too,  if  she  had  the  chance.  It 
is  astonishing  what  capability  there  is  in  this  little 
body." 

G 


98  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Felise,  yielding  to  the  caress,  touched  her  father's 
hair.  "  It's  like  maman,  when  she  was  young, 
n'est-ce  pas  ?  "  She  spoke  in  French,  which  came 
more  readily. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fortinbras,  in  a  deep  voice,  "  just  like 
your  mother." 

"  I  try  to  resemble  her.  Tu  sais,  every  time  I  feel 
I  am  lazy  or  missing  my  duties,  I  think  of  maman, 
and  I  say,  '  No,  I  will  not  be  unworthy  of  her.'  And 
so  that  gives  me  courage." 

"  I've  heard  so  much  of  Mrs.  Fortinbras,"  said 
Martin,  "  that  I  seem  to  know  her  intimately." 

A  smile  of  great  tenderness  and  sadness  crept  into 
Fortinbras's  eyes  as  he  turned  them  on  his  daughter. 

"It  is  good  that  you  still  think  and  speak  so  much 
of  her.  Ideals  keep  the  soul  winged  for  flight.  If  it 
flies  away  into  the  empyrean,  and  comes  to  grief  like 
Icarus  and  his  later  fellow-pioneers  in  aviation,  at  least 
it  has  done  something." 

He  released  her,  and  she  sped  away  on  her  duties. 
Presently  she  returned  with  a  scared  face. 

"  Monsieur  Martin,  what  has  happened  ?  Here  is 
Corinne  going  to  leave  us  this  morning." 

"  Corinna  going  ?  Does  she  know  I'm  here  ?  " 
asked  Fortinbras  in  wonderment. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  seen  her.  I  did  not 
dream  that  she  was  up — she  generally  rises  so  late. 
But  she  has  told  Baptiste  to  take  down  her  boxes  for 
the  omnibus  to  catch  the  early  train  for  Paris.  Mon 
Dieti,  what  has  happened  to  drive  her  away  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  the  visit  yesterday  of  Monsieur  Camille 
Fargot,"  said  Martin. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Fortinbras  sharply.  Then  turning  to 
Felise :  "  Go,  my  dear,  and  lay  my  humble  homage 
at  the  feet  of  ]\Iademoiselle  Cormne,  and  say  that  as  I 
have  travelled  for  nearly  a  day  and  a  night  in  order 
to  see  her,  I  crave  her  courtesy  so  far  as  to  defer  her 
departure  until  I  can  have  speech  with  her.     You  can 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  99 

also  tell  Baptiste  that  I'll  break  his  neck  if  he  touches 
those  boxes.  The  omnibus  might  also  anticipate  its 
usual  hour  of  starting." 

Felise  departed.  Fortinbras  lit  a  cigarette  and, 
holding  it  between  his  fingers,  frowned  at  it. 

"  Camille  Fargot  ?  What  was  that  spawn  of  nothing- 
ness doing  here  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  she  sent  for  him,"  said  Martin.  "  I 
suppose  I  had  better  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  haven't 
as  yet — because  it  was  none  of  my  business." 

"  Proceed,"  said  Fortinbras,  and  Martin  told  him  of 
the  famous  balance-striking,  and  of  Corinna's  subse- 
quent behaviour,  including  last  night's  retirement  into 
soHtude  after  her  mysterious  interview  with  the  spawn 
of  nothingness. 

"  Good,"  said  Fortinbras  when  Martin  had  finished. 
"  Very  good.  And  what  had  my  excellent  brother-in- 
law  to  say  to  it  ?  " 

"  Your  excellent  brother-in-law,"  replied  Martin, 
with  a  smile,  "  seems  to  be  a  very  delicate-minded 
gentleman." 

Fortinbras  did  not  press  the  subject.  Waiting  for 
Corinna,  they  talked  of  casual  things.  Martin,  now  a 
creature  of  health  and  appetite,  devoured  innumerable 
rolls  and  absorbed  many  bowls  of  coffee  to  the  out- 
spoken admiration  of  Fortinbras.  But  still  Corinna 
did  not  come.  Then  Martin  filled  a  pipe  of  caporal, 
and  smoking  it  with  gusto  told  Fortinbras  more  of 
what  he  had  learned  at  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers.  He 
expressed  his  wonder  at  the  people's  lack  of  enthusiasm 
for  their  political  leaders. 

"  The  adventurer  politician  is  the  curse  of  this 
country,"  said  Fortinbras.  "  He  insinuates  himself 
into  every  Government.  He  is  out  for  plunder,  his 
hand  is  at  the  throat  of  patriotic  Ministers,  and  he 
strangles  France,  while  into  liis  pockets  through 
devious  channels  filters  a  fine  stream  of  German  gold." 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  cried  Martin. 


100  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Oh  !  He  isn't  a  traitor  in  the  sense  of  being 
suborned  by  a  foreign  Power.  He  is  far  too  subtle. 
But  he  knows  what  poHcy  will  affect  the  world's 
exchanges  to  his  profit ;  and  that  policy  he  advocates." 

"  A  gangrene  in  the  body  politic,"  said  Martin. 

Fortinbras  nodded  assent.  "  It  will  only  be  the 
sword  of  war  that  will  cut  it  out." 

On  this,  in  marched  Corinna  dressed  for  travel,  with 
a  little  embroidered  bag  slung  over  her  arm.  She 
crossed  the  room,  her  head  up,  her  chin  in  the  air, 
defiant  as  usual,  and  shook  hands  with  Fortinbras. 

"  I've  come  as  you  asked,"  she  said.  "  But  let  us 
be  quick  with  the  talking,  as  I've  got  to  catch  a  train." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Fortinbras,  setting  a  chair  for  her. 

She  obeyed,  and  there  the  three  of  them  were  sitting 
once  more  round  a  table  in  an  empty  dining-room. 
But  this  time  it  was  a  cloudy  morning  in  early 
November,  in  the  heart  of  France,  the  distant  mountains 
across  the  town  half  veiled  in  mist,  and  a  fine  rain 
faUing.  Gusts  of  raw  air  came  in  through  the  open 
terrace  window  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

"  So,  my  dear  Corinna,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  you  have 
not  waited  for  the  second  consultation  which  was  part 
of  our  programme." 

"  That's  your  fault,  not  mine,"  said  Corinna.  "  I 
expected  you  weeks  ago." 

"  Doubtless.  But  your  expectation  was  no  reason 
for  my  coming  weeks  ago.  My  undertaking,  however, 
was  a  reason  for  your  continuing  to  expect  me  and 
being  certain  that  sooner  or  later  I  should  come." 

"  All  right,"  said  Corinna.  "  This  is  mere  talk. 
What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  To  ask  you,  my  dear  Corinna,"  replied  Fortinbras 
in  his  persuasive  tones,  "  why  you  have  disregarded 
my  advice  ?  " 

"  And  what  was  your  advice  ?  " 

"  To  do  nothing  headstrong,  violent,  and  lunatic 
until  we  met  again." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  loi 

"  You  should  have  come  sooner.  I  find  I  am  Hving 
now  on  Martin's  charity,  and  the  time  has  come  to 
put  all  this  rubbish  aside,  and  go  home  to  my  people 
with  my  tail  between  my  legs.  It's  vastly  pleasant, 
I  assure  you." 

"  Oh,  young  woman  of  httle  faith  !  Why  did  you 
not  put  your  trust  in  me,  instead  of  in  callow  medical 
students  with  ridiculous  mothers  ?  " 

Corinna  flushed  crimson,  and  her  eyes  hardened  in 
anger.  "  I  suppose  every  gossiping  tongue  in  this 
horrid  httle  hotel  has  been  wagging.  That's  why 
I'm  going  off  now,  so  that  they  can  wag  in  my 
absence." 

"  But,  my  dear  Penthesilea,"  said  Fortinbras  sooth- 
ingly, "  why  get  so  angry  ?  Every  living  soul  in  this 
horrid  hotd  is  on  your  side.  They  would  give  their 
eyes  and  ears  to  help  you  and  sjnnpathize  with  you 
and  show  you  that  they  love  you." 

"  I  don't  want  their  sympathy,"  said  Corinna 
stubbornly. 

"  Or  any  human  expression  of  affection  or  regret  ? 
You  want  just  to  pay  your  bill  hke  any  young  woman 
in  an  automobile  who  has  put  up  for  the  night,  and  go 
your  way  ?  " 

"  No.  I  don't.  But  I've  been  damnably  treated, 
and  I  want  to  get  away  back  to  England." 

"  Who  has  treated  you  damnably  here  ?  "  asked 
Fortinbras. 

"  Don't  be  idiotic,"  cried  Corinna.  "  Everybody 
here  has  been  simply  angehc  to  me — even  Martin." 

"  On  the  whole  I  think  I've  behaved  fairly  decently 
since  we  started  out  together,"  Martin  observed. 

"  At  any  rate  you  act  according  to  the  instincts  of  a 
gentleman,"  she  admitted. 

Fortinbras  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  drew  a 
,  breath  of  relief. 

"  I'm  glad  to  perceive  that  this  hurried  departure  is 
not  an  elopement." 


102  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Elopement !  "     she     echoed.      "  Do     you     think 
I'd " 


Fortinbras  checked  her  with  his  upHfted  hand. 
"  Sh  !  Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  in  a  few  words 
everything  that  has  happened  ?  "  He  bent  his  intel- 
lectual brow  upon  her,  and  held  her  with  his  patient, 
tired  eyes.  "  Being  at  the  end  of  your  resources,  not 
desiring  to  share  in  the  vagabond's  pool  with  Martin, 
and  losing  faith  in  my  professional  pledge,  you  bethink 
you  of  the  young  popinjay  with  whom,  in  your  inde- 
pendent English  innocence  but  to  the  scandal  of  his 
French  relatives,  you  have  flaunted  it  in  the  restaurants 
and  theatres  of  Paris.  //  vous  a  conte  fleurette.  He 
has  made  his  little  love  to  you.  All  honour  and  no 
blame  to  him.  At  his  age  " — he  bowed — "  I  would 
have  done  the  same.  You  correspond  on  the  senti- 
mental plane.  But  in  all  his  correspondence  you  will 
find  not  one  declaration  in  form." 

Corinna  mechanically  peeled  off  her  gloves.  Fortin- 
bras drew  a  whiff  of  his  cigarette.     He  continued  : 

"  You  think  of  him  as  a  possible  husband,  I  am 
frank — it  is  my  profession  to  be  so.  But  your  heart," 
— he  pointed  dramatically  to  her  bosom — "  has  never 
had  a  flutter.  You  don't  deny  it.  Good.  In  your 
extremity,  as  you  think,  you  send  him  an  urgent 
telegram,  such  as  no  man  of  human  feeling  could 
disregard.  He  borrows  his  cousin's  husband's  motor- 
car, and  obeys  your  summons.  You  interview  him  in 
yonder  little  fly-blown,  suffocating  salon.  You  put 
your  case  before  him — with  no  matter  what  feminine 
delicacy.  He  perceives  that  he  is  confronted  with  a 
claim  for  a  demand  in  marriage.  He  draws  back.  He 
cannot  by  means  of  any  quirk  or  quibble  of  French 
law  marry  you  without  his  parents'  consent.  This  they 
would  never  give,  having  their  own  well-matured  and 
irrefragable  plans.  Marriage  is  as  impossible  as 
immediate  canonization.  '  But,'  says  he,  '  we  are  both 
young.    We  love  each  other ;  we  shall  both  be  in  the 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  103 

Quartier  for  time  indefinite  ' — time  is  never  definite, 
thank  God,  to  youth — '  why  should  we  not  set  up 
housekeeping  together — I  have  enough  for  both — 
and  let  the  future  take  care  of  itself  ?  '  " 

Corinna  rose  and  looked  at  him  haggardly  and 
clutched  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"  How,  in  the  name  of  God,  do  you  know  that  ? 
Who  told  you  ?  Who  overheard  that  little  beast 
propose  that  I  should  go  and  live  with  him  as  his 
mistress  ?  " 

Fortinbras  patted  the  white-knuckled  hand  and 
smiled,  as  he  looked  up  into  her  tense  face.  "  Do  you 
suppose,  my  dear  child,  that  I  have  been  the  father 
confessor  of  half  the  rive  gauche  for  twenty  years 
without  knowing  something  of  the  ways  of  the  rive 
gauche  ?  Without  knowdng  something,  not  exactly  of 
international,  but  say  of  multi-national  codes  of  social 
observance,  morality,  honour,  and  so  forth,  and  how 
they  clash,  correspond,  and  interact  ?  I  know  the  two 
international  forces — yours  and  Camille  Fargot's,  con- 
verging on  the  matrimonial  point — and  with  simple 
certainty  I  tell  you  the  resultant.  It's  like  a  schoolboy's 
exercise  in  mathematics." 

She  freed  herself,  and  sat  down  again  dejectedly. 
Everything  had  happened  as  Fortinbras  declared. 
His  only  omission,  to  repair  which  she  had  not  given 
him  time,  was  the  scene  of  flaming  indignation  incident 
to  Camille  Fargot's  dismissal.  And  his  psychology 
was  correct.  The  young  man's  charming  love-making 
had  flattered  her,  had  indeed  awakened  foolish  hopes  ; 
but  she  had  never  cared  a  button  for  him.  Now  she 
loathed  him  with  a  devastating  hate.  She  thrummed 
\\dth  her  fingers  on  the  table. 

"  What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Ah,  now,"  said  Fortinbras  genially,  "  we're  talking 
sense.  Now  we  come  to  our  famous  second  professional 
consultation." 

"  Go  ahead  then,"  said  Corinna. 


104  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  I  mentioned  the  word  '  professional,'  "  Fortinbras 
remarked. 

Martin  laughed,  and  put  a  ten-franc  piece  into  the 
soft,  open  palm. 

"  ril  pay  for  both,"  said  he. 

"  It's  like  having  your  fortune  told  at  a  fair,"  said 
Corinna.  "  But  hurry  up  !  "  She  glanced  at  her  watch. 
"  As  it  is,  I  shan't  have  time  to  pay  my  bill.  Will  you 
see  after  it  ?  "  She  drew  from  her  bag  one  of  the 
borrowed  notes  and  threw  it  across  to  Martin.  "  Well, 
I  am  all  attention.     I  can  give  you  three  minutes." 

But  just  then  a  familiar  sound  of  scrunching  wheels 
came  through  the  open  doors  of  vestibule  and  dining- 
room.     She  started. 

"  That's  the  omnibus  going." 

"  The  omnibus  gone,"  said  Fortinbras. 

"  I'll  miss  my  train." 

"  You  will,"  said  Fortinbras. 

"  My  luggage  has  gone  with  it." 

"  It  has  not,"  said  Fortinbras.  "  I  gave  instructions 
that  it  should  not  be  brought  down." 

Corinna  gasped.  "  Of  all  the  cool  impertinence —  !  " 
She  looked  at  her  watch  again.  "  And  the  beastly 
thing  has  started  long  before  its  time  !  " 

"  At  my  request,"  said  Fortinbras.  "  And  now,  as 
there  is  no  possibihty  of  your  getting  away  from 
Brantome  for  several  hours,  perhaps  you  might,  with 
profit,  abandon  your  attitude  of  indignation  and  hsten 
to  the  voice  of  reason." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Martin,  "  have  you  had  your 
petit  dejeuner  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Corinna  sullenly. 

"  Good  God !  "  cried  Fortinbras,  holding  up  his 
hands,  "  and  they  let  women  run  about  loose  !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CoRlNNA,  fortified  by  urgently  summoned  nourishment, 
lit  a  cigarette  and  sarcastically  announced  her  readiness 
to  Hsten  to  the  oracle.  The  oracle  bowed  with  his 
customary  benevolence,  and  spoke  for  a  considerable 
time  in  florid  though  unambiguous  terms.  To  say  that 
Corinna  was  surprised  by  the  proposal  which  he  set 
before  her  would  inadequately  express  her  indignant 
stupefaction.  She  sat  angry,  with  reddened  cheek- 
bones and  tightly  screwed  lips,  perfectly  silent,  letting 
the  wretched  man  complete  his  amazing  pronounce- 
ment before  she  should  annihilate  him.  He  was  still 
pronouncing,  however,  when  Bigourdin  appeared  at 
the  door.  Fortinbras  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  and  called  him  into  the  room. 

"  My  good  Gaspard,"  said  he  in  French,  for 
Bigourdin  knew  Httle  Enghsh,  "  I  am  suggesting  to 
mademoiselle  a  scheme  for  her  perfect  happiness  of 
which  I  have  reason  to  know  you  will  approve.  Sit 
down  and  join  our  conclave." 

"  I  approve  of  everything  in  advance,"  said  the 
huge  man  with  a  smile. 

"  Then  I  suppose  you're  aware  of  this  delicious 
scheme  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  have  boundless 
confidence  in  my  brother-in-law." 

"  His  idea  is  that  I  should  enter  your  employment 
as  a  kind  of  forewoman  in  your  fabrique." 

"  But  that  is  famous  !  "  exclaimed  Bigourdin,  with  a 
sparkle  in  his  eyes.  "  It  could  only  enter  into  that 
wise  head  yonder.     The  trade  is  getting  beyond  Fehse 

105 


io6  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

and  myself.  Sooner  or  later  I  must  get  some  one,  a 
woman,  to  take  charge  of  the  manufacturing  depart- 
ment. I  have  told  Daniel  my  difficulties,  and  he 
comes  now  with  this  magnificent  solution.  Car  c'est 
vraiment  magnifique."  He  beamed  all  over  his  honest 
face. 

"  You  would  have  to  learn  the  business  from  the 
beginning,"  said  Fortinbras  quickly.  "  That  would  be 
easy,  as  you  would  have  wilHng  instructors,  and  as 
you  are  not  deficient  in  ordinary  intelligence.  You 
would  rise  every  day  in  self-esteem  and  dignity,  and 
at  last  find  yoiirself  of  use  in  the  social  organism." 

"  You  propose  then,"  said  Corinna,  restraining  the 
annihilatory  outburst  owing  to  Bigourdin's  presence, 
and  shaking  with  suppressed  wrath,  "you  propose  then 
that  I  should  spend  the  life  that  God  has  given  me  in 
making  pdfe  de  foie  gras." 

"  Better  that  than  spend  it  in  making  bad  pictures 
or  a  fool  of  yourself." 

"  I've  given  up  painting,"  Corinna  replied,  "  and 
every  woman  makes  a  fool  of  herself.  Hence  the 
perpetuation  of  the  human  species." 

"  In  your  case,  my  dear  Corinna,"  said  Fortinbras, 
"  that  would  be  commendable  folly." 

"  You  are  insulting,"  she  cried,  her  checks  aflame. 

"  Tiens,  Hens !  "  said  Bigourdin,  laying  his  great 
hand  on  his  brother-in-law's  arm. 

But  Fortinbras  stroked  back  his  white  mane  and 
regarded  them  both  with  leonine  serenity. 

"  To  meet  a  cynical  gibe  with  a  retort  implying  that 
marriage  and  motherhood  are  woman's  commendable 
lot  cannot  be  regarded  as  an  insult." 

Corinna  scoffed  :   "  How  do  you  manage  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  Do  what  ?  " 

"  Talk  like  that." 

"  By  means  of  an  education  not  entirely  rudimen- 
tary," replied  Fortinbras  in  his  blandest  tone.  "  In 
the  meanwhile  you  haven't  replied  to  my  suggestion. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  107 

Once  you  said  you  would  like  to  take  life  by  the  throat 
and  choke  something  big  out  of  it.  You  still  want  to 
do  it — but  you  can't.  You  know  you  can't,  my  dear 
Corinna.  Even  the  people  that  can  perform  this 
garrotting  feat  squeeze  precious  little  happiness  out 
of  it.  Happiness  comes  to  mortals  tlirough  the  most 
subtle  channels.  I  suggest  it  might  come  to  you 
through  the  hver  of  an  overfed  goose." 

At  Corinna's  outburst,  Bigourdin's  sunny  face  had 
clouded  over.  "  Mademoiselle  Corinne,"  said  he 
earnestly,  "  if  you  would  deign  to  accept  such  a 
position,  which  after  all  has  in  it  nothing  dishonourable, 
I  assure  you  from  my  heart  that  you  would  be  treated 
with  all  esteem  and  loyalty." 

The  man's  perfect  courtesy  disarmed  her.  Of  course 
she  was  still  indignant  with  Fortinbras.  That  she, 
Corinna  Hastings,  last  type  of  emancipated  English 
womanhood,  bent  on  the  expression  of  a  highly 
important  self,  should  calmly  be  counselled  to  bury 
herself  in  a  stuffy  Httle  French  town  and  become  a 
sort  of  housekeeper  in  a  shabby  little  French  hotel ! 
The.  suggestion  was  preposterous,  an  outrage  to  the 
highly  important  self,  reckoning  it  a  thing  of  no 
account.  Why  not  turn  her  into  a  chambermaid  or 
a  gooseherd  at  once  ?  The  contemptuous  assumption 
fired  her  wrath.  She  was  furious  with  Fortinbras. 
But  Bigourdin,  who  treated  the  subject  from  the 
point  of  view  of  one  who  asked  a  favour,  deserved  a 
civil  answer. 

"  Monsieur  Bigourdin,"  she  said  with  a  becoming 
air  of  dignity  tempered  by  a  pitying  smile,  "  I  know 
that  you  are  everything  that  is  kind,  and  I  thank  you 
most  sincerely  for  your  offer,  but  for  private  reasons 
it  is  one  that  I  cannot  accept.  You  must  forgive  me 
if  I  return  to  England,  where  my  duty  calls  me." 

"  Your  duty — to  whom  ?  "  asked  Fortinbras. 

She  petrified  him  with  a  glance.  "  To  myself,"  she 
replied. 


io8  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  In  that  case  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said," 
remarked  Bigourdin  dismally. 

"  There's  everything  to  be  said,"  declared  Fortin- 
bras.     "  But  it's  not  worth  while  saving  it." 

Corinna  rose  and  gathered  up  her  gloves.  "  I'm 
glad  you  realize  the  fact." 

Bigourdin  rose  too  and  detained  her  for  a  second. 
"  If  you  would  do  me  the  honour  of  accepting  our 
hospitality  for  just  a  day  or  two " — delicately  he 
included  Felise  as  hostess — "  perhaps  you  might  be 
induced  to  reconsider  your  decision." 

But  she  was  not  to  be  moved — even  by  Martin,  who, 
having  smoked  the  pipe  of  discreet  silence  during  the 
discussion,  begged  her  to  postpone  her  departure. 

"  Anyhow,  wait,"  said  he,  "  until  our  good  counsellor 
tells  us  what  he  proposes  to  do  for  me.  As  we  started 
in  together,  it's  only  fair." 

"  Yes,"  said  Corinna.  "  Let  us  hear.  What  ordon- 
nance  de  bonheur  have  you  for  Martin  ?  " 

"  Are  you  very  anxious  to  know  ?  "  asked  Fortinbras. 

"  Naturally,"  said  Martin,  and  he  added  hastily  in 
English,  being  somewhat  shy  of  revealing  himself  to 
Bigourdin  :  "  Corinna  can  tell  you  that  I've  been  loyal 
to  you  all  through.  I've  had  a  sort  of  blind  confidence 
in  you.  I've  chucked  ever3rthing.  But  I'm  nearly  at 
the  end  of  the  financial  tether,  and  something  must 
happen." 

"  Sans  doute,"  said  Fortinbras.  So  as  to  bring 
Bigourdin  into  range  again,  he  continued  in  French. 
"  To  tell  you  what  is  going  to  happen  is  one  of  the 
reasons  why  I  am  here." 

"  Well,  tell  us,"  said  Corinna.  "  I  can't  stand  here 
all  day." 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,  mademoiselle  ?  "  said  Bigourdin. 

Corinna  took  her  vacated  chair. 

"  Aren't  you  ever  going  to  begin  ?  " 

"  I  had  prepared,"  replied  Fortinbras  benevolently, 
' '  an  exhaustive  analysis  of  our  young  friend's  financial, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  109 

moral,  and  spiritual  state  of  being.  But,  as  you 
appear  to  be  impatient,  I  will  forgo  the  pleasure  of 
imparting  to  you  this  salutary  instruction.  So  per- 
haps it  is  better  that  I  should  come  to  the  point  at 
once.  He  is  practically  penniless.  He  has  abandoned 
all  ideas  of  returning  to  his  soul-stifling  profession. 
But  he  must,  in  the  commonplace  way  of  mortals,  earn 
his  Uving.  His  soul  has  had  a  complete  rest  for  three 
months.  It  is  time  now  that  it  should  be  stimulated 
to  effort  that  shall  result  in  consequences  more  glorious 
than  the  poor  human  phenomenon  that  is  I  can  predict. 
My  prescription  of  happiness,  as  you,  Corinna,  have  so 
admirably  put  it,  is  that  Martin  shall  take  the  place 
of  the  unclean  Polydore,  who,  I  understand,  has 
recently  been  ejected  with  ignominy  from  this  establish- 
ment." 

His  small  audience  gasped  in  three  separate  and 
particular  fashions. 

"  Mon  vieux,  c'est  idiot !  "  cried  Bigourdin. 

"  What  a  career ! "  cried  Corinna,  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Martin,  thumping 
the  table. 

Fortinbras  rubbed  his  soft  hands  together.  "  I  don't 
deal  in  the  obvious," 

"  Mon  vieux,  you  are  laughing  at  us,"  said  Bigourdin. 
"  Monsieur  Martin,  a  gentleman,  a  scholar,  a  pro- 
fessor  !  " 

"  A  speck  of  human  dust  in  search  of  a  soul,"  said 
Fortinbras. 

"  Which  he's  not  going  to  find  among  dirty  plates 
and  dishes,"  scoffed  Corinna. 

"  In  the  eyes  of  the  Distributing  Department  of  the 
Soul  Office  of  Olympus,  where  every  little  clerk  is  a 
Deuce  of  a  High  God,  the  clatter  of  plates  and  dishes 
is  as  important  as  the  clash  of  armies." 

Corinna  looked  at  Bigourdin.  "  He's  raving  mad," 
she  said. 

Fortinbras  rosa  unruffled  and  laid  a  hand  on  Martin's 


no  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

shoulder.  "  My  excellent  friend  and  disciple,"  said  he, 
"  let  us  leave  the  company  of  these  obscurantists  and 
seek  enlightenment  in  the  fresh  air  of  heaven." 

Whereupon  he  led  the  young  man  to  the  terrace,  and 
walked  up  and  down  discoursing  with  philosophical 
plausibiHty  while  his  white  hair,  caught  by  the  gusty 
breeze,  streamed  behind  like  a  shaggy  meteor. 

Bigourdin,  who  had  remained  standing,  sat  down 
again  and  said  apologetically  : 

"  My  brother-in-law  is  an  oddity." 

"  I  believe  you,"  assented  Corinna. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Corinna  felt  that  the 
time  had  come  for  a  dignified  retirement.  But  whither 
repair  at  this  unconscionably  early  hour  ?  The  hotel 
resembled  now  a  railway  station  at  which  she  was 
doomed  to  wait  interminably,  and  one  spot  seemed  as 
good  as  another.     So  she  did  not  move. 

"  You  have  decided  then  to  leave  us.  Mademoiselle 
Corinne  ?  "  said  Bigourdin  at  last. 

"  I  must." 

"  Is  there  no  means  by  which  I  could  persuade  you 
to  stay  ?     I  desire  enormously  that  you  should  stay." 

Her  glance  met  his  and  lowered.  The  tone  of  his 
voice  thrilled  her  absurdly.  She  had  at  once  an 
impulse  to  laugh,  and  a  queer  triumphant  little  flutter 
of  the  heart. 

"  To  make  pdte  de  foie  gras  ?  You  must  have 
unwarrantable  faith  in  me." 

"  Perhaps,  in  the  end,"  said  he  soberly,  "  it  might 
amuse  you  to  make  pdte  de  foie  gras.  Who  knows  ? 
All  things  are  possible."  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
then  bent  forward,  elbow  on  table  and  chin  in  hand. 
"  This  is  but  a  little  hotel  in  a  little  town,  but  in  it 
one  might  find  tranquillity  and  happiness — enfin,  the 
significance  of  things — of  human  things.  For  I  believe 
that  where  human  beings  Hve  and  love  and  suffer  and 
strive,  there  is  an  eternal  significance  beneath  the 
commonplace,  and  if  we  grasp  it,  it  leads  us  to  the 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  rii 

root  of  life,  which  is  happiness.  Don't  you  think  so, 
mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you're  right,"  she  admitted  dubiously, 
never  having  taken  the  trouble  to  look  at  existence 
from  the  subjective  standpoint.  Her  attitude  was 
instinctively  objective. 

"  I  thank  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  he.  "I  said 
that  because  I  want  to  put  something  before  you. 
And  it  is  not  very  easy.  I  repeat — this  is  but  a  little 
hotel  in  a  little  town.  I  too  am  but  a  man  of  the  people, 
mademoiselle  ;  but  this  hotel — my  father  added  to  it 
and  transformed  it,  but  it  is  the  same  property — 
this  hotel  has  been  handed  down  from  father  to  son 
for  a  hundred  years.  My  great-grandfather,  a  simple 
peasant,  rose  to  be  General  de  Brigade  in  the  Grande 
Armee  of  Napoleon.  After  Waterloo,  he  would  accept 
no  favour  from  the  Bourbons,  and  retired  to  Brantome, 
the  home  of  his  race,  and  with  his  Httle  economies  he 
bought  the  Hotel  des  Grottes,  at  which  he  had  worked 
years  before  as  a  little  va-mi-pieds,  turnspit,  holder  of 
horses — que  sais-je,  moi  ?  Those  were  days,  made- 
moiselle, of  many  revolutions  of  fortune." 

"  And  all  that  means ?  "  asked  Corinna,  im- 
pressed, in  spite  of  English  prejudice,  by  the  simple 
yet  not  inglorious  ancestry  of  the  huge  innkeeper. 

"  It  means,  mademoiselle,"  said  Bigourdin,  "  that 
I  wish  to  present  myself  to  you  as  an  honest  man. 
But  as  I  am  of  no  credit,  myself,  I  would  like  to  expose 
to  you  the  honour  of  my  family.  My  great-grandfather, 
as  I  have  said,  was  General  de  Brigade  in  the  Grande 
Armee.  My  grandfather,  simple  soldat,  fought  side  by 
side  with  the  English  in  the  Crimea.  My  father, 
sergeant  of  artillery,  lost  a  leg  and  an  arm  in  the  war 
of  1S70.  My  younger  brother  was  killed  in  Morocco. 
For  me,  I  have  done  my  service  militaire.  On  fait  ce 
qu'on  peut.  It  is  chance  that  I  am  forty  years  of  age 
and  live  in  obscurity.  But  my  name  is  known  and 
respected  in  all  Perigord,  mademoiselle " 


112  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  And  again — all  that  means ?  " 

"  That  if  a  petit  hdtelier  Hke  me  ventures  to  lay  a 
proposition  at  the  feet  of  a  jeune  fille  de  famille  like 
yourself — the  petii  hotelier  wishes  to  assure  her  of  the 
perfect  honorabilite  of  his  family.  In  short,  Made- 
moiselle Corinne,  I  love  you  very  sincerely.  I  can 
make  no  phrases,  for  when  I  say  I  love  you,  it  comes 
from  the  innermost  depths  of  my  being.  I  am  a 
simple  man,"  he  continued  very  earnestly  and  with 
an  air  of  hope,  as  Corinna  flashed  out  no  repulse,  but 
sat  sphinx-hke,  looking  away  from  him  across  the 
room,  "  a  very  simple  man  ;  but  my  heart  is  loyal. 
Such  as  I  am,  Mademoiselle  Corinne — and  you  have 
had  an  opportunity  of  judging — I  have  the  honour  to 
ask  you  if  you  will  be  my  wife." 

Corinna  knew  enough  of  France  to  realize  that  all 
this  was  amazing.  The  average  Frenchman,  whom 
Bigourdin  represented,  is  passionate  but  not  romantic. 
If  he  sets  his  heart  on  a  woman,  be  she  the  angel-eyed 
spouse  of  another  respectable  citizen  or  the  tawdry  and 
naughty  little  figurante  in  a  provincial  company,  he 
does  his  honest  (or  dishonest)  best  to  get  her.  C'est 
I'amour,  and  there's  an  end  to  it.  But  he  envisages 
marriage  from  a  totally  different  angle.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  say  that  he  does  not  entertain  very  sincere 
and  tender  sentiments  towards  the  young  lady  he 
proposes  to  marry.  But  he  only  proposes  to  marry  a 
young  lady  who  can  put  a  certain  capital  into  the 
business  partnership  which  is  an  essential  feature  of 
marriage.  If  he  is  attracted  towards  a  damsel  of 
pleasing  ways  but  devoid  of  capital,  he  either  behaves 
like  the  appalUng  Monsieur  Camille  Fargot  or  puts  his 
common  sense,  like  a  non-conducting  material,  between 
them,  and,  in  all  simplicity,  doesn't  fall  in  love  with 
her.  But  here  was  a  manifestation  of  freakishness. 
Here  was  Bigourdin,  man  of  substance,  who  could 
have  gone  to  any  one  of  twenty  families  of  substance 
in  Perigord  and  chosen  from  it  an  impeccable  and  well- 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  113 

dowered  bride — here  he  was  snapping  his  fingers  at 
French  bourgeois  tradition — than  which  there  is 
nothing  more  sacrosanct — putting  his  common  sense 
into  his  cap  and  throwing  it  over  the  windmills,  and 
acting  in  a  manner  which  King  Cophetua  himself,  had 
he  been  a  Frenchman,  would  have  condemned  as 
either  unconventional  or  insane. 

Corinna's  English  upper  middle-class  pride  had 
revolted  at  the  suggestion  that  she  should  become  an 
employee  in  a  little  bourgeois  inn;  but  her  knowledge 
of  French  provincial  life,  painfully  quickened  by  her 
experience  of  yesterday,  assured  her  that  she  was  the 
recipient  of  the  greatest  honour  that  lies  in  the  power 
of  a  French  citizen  to  offer.  An  English  innkeeper 
daring  to  propose  marriage  she  would  have  scorched 
with  blazing  indignation,  and  the  bewildered  wretch 
would  have  gone  away  wondering  how  he  had  mistaken 
for  an  angel  such  a  catherine-wheel  of  a  woman.  But 
against  Bigourdin,  son  of  other  traditions,  so  secure  in 
his  integrity,  so  delicate  in  his  approach,  so  intensely 
sincere  in  his  appeal,  she  could  find  within  her  not  a 
spark  of  anger.  All  conditions  were  different.  The 
plane  of  their  relations  was  different.  She  would 
never  have  confessed  to  a  flirtation  with  an  English 
innkeeper.  Besides,  she  had  a  really  friendly  feeling 
for  Bigourdin,  something  of  admiration.  He  was  so 
big,  so  simple,  so  genuine,  so  intelligent.  In  spite  of 
Martin's  complaint  that  she  could  not  realize  the  spirit 
of  modern  France,  her  shrewd  observation  had  missed 
little  of  the  moral  and  spiritual  phenomena  of  Brantome. 
She  was  well  aware  that  Bigourdin,  petit  hdtelier  that 
he  was,  stood  for  many  noble  ideals  outside  her  own 
narrow  horizon.  She  respected  him  ;  she  also  derived 
feminine  pleasure  from  his  small  mouth  and  the  colour 
of  his  eyes.  But  the  possibility  of  marrying  him  had 
never  entered  her  head.  She  had  not  the  remotest 
intention  of  marrying  him  now.  The  proposal  was 
grotesque.    As  soon  as  she  got  clear  of  the  place  she 


114  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

would  throw  back  her  head  and  roar  with  laughter  at 
it ;  a  gleeful  little  devU  was  already  dancing  at  the 
back  of  her  brain.  For  the  moment,  however,  she  did 
not  laugh :  on  the  contrar3^  a  queer  thrill  again  ran 
through  her  body,  and  she  felt  a  difficulty  in  looking 
him  in  the  face.  After  having  thrown  herself  at  a 
man's  head  yesterday  only  to  be  spurned,  her  outraged 
spirit  found  solace  in  having  to-day  another  man 
suppHant  at  her  feet.  Of  his  sincerity  there  could  be 
no  possible  question.  This  big,  good  man  loved  her. 
For  all  her  independent  way  and  rackety  student 
experiences,  no  man  before  had  come  to  her  with  the 
loyalty  of  deep  love  in  his  eyes,  no  man  had  asked  her 
to  be  his  wife.  Absurd  as  it  all  was,  she  felt  its 
flattering  deliciousness  in  every  fibre  of  her  being. 

"  Eh  hien,  Mademoiselle  Corinne,  what  do  you 
answer  ?  "  asked  Bigourdin,  after  a  breathless  silence 
during  which,  with  head  bent  forward  over  the  table, 
she  had  been  nervously  fiddling  with  her  gloves. 

"  You  are  very  kind.  Monsieur  Bigourdin.  I  never 
thought  you  felt  Hke  that  towards  me,"  she  said 
falteringly,  like  any  well-brought-up  schoolgirl.  "  You 
should  have  told  me." 

"  To  have  expressed  my  feehngs  before,  made- 
moiselle, would  have  been  to  take  advantage  of  your 
position  under  my  roof." 

Suddenly  there  came  an  unprecedented  welHng  of 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  a  lump  in  her  throat.  She 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  with  rare  impulsiveness  thrust 
out  her  hand. 

"  Monsieur  Bigourdin,  you  are  the  best  man  I  have 
ever  met.  I  am  your  friend,  your  very  great  friend. 
But  I  can't  marry  you.     It  is  impossible." 

He  rose  too,  holding  her,  and  put  the  eternal  question. 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  You  deserve  a  wife  who  loves  you.  I  don't  love 
you.  I  never  could  love  you — "  and  then  from  the 
infinite  spaces  of  loneliness  there  spread  about  her  soul 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  115 

a  frozen  desolation,  and  she  stood  as  one  blasted  by 
Polar  wind — "  I  shall  never  love  a  man  all  my  hfe 
long.     I  am  not  made  Hke  that." 

And  she  seemed  to  shrivel  in  his  grasp,  and  flitting 
between    the    snowclad    tables    Hke    a   wraith,    was 

gone. 

"  Bigre !  "  said  Bigourdin,  sitting  down  again. 

Soon  afterwards,  Fortinbras  and  Martin,  coming  in 
from  the  terrace,  found  him  sprawHng  over  the  table,  a 
monumental  mass  of  dejection.  But,  full  of  their  own 
conceits,  they  did  not  divine  his  misery.  Fortinbras 
smote  him  friendlywise  on  his  broad  back  and  aroused 
him  from  lethargy. 

"  It  is  all  arranged,  mon  vieux  Gaspard,"  he  cried 
heartily.  "  I  have  been  pouring  into  awakening  ears 
all  the  divine  distillations  of  my  philosophy.  I  have 
initiated  him  into  mysteries.  He  is  a  neophyte  of 
whom  I  am  proud." 

Bigourdin,  in  no  mood  for  allusive  hyperbole,  shook 
himself  like  a  great  dog. 

"  What  kind  of  imbeciUty  are  you  talking  ?  " 

"  The  late  Polydore "  Fortinbras  began. 

"  Ah !  Finish  with  it,  I  beg  you,"  interrupted 
Bigourdin,  with  an  unusual  air  of  impatience. 

"  It  isn't  a  joke,  I  assure  you,"  said  Martin.  "  I 
have  come  to  the  end  of  my  resources.  I  must  work. 
You  will,  sooner  or  later,  have  to  fill  the  place  of  Poly- 
dore. Give  me  the  wages  of  Polydore  and  I  am  ready 
to  fill  it.  I  could  not  be  more  incapable,  and  perhaps 
I  am  a  Httle  more  intelligent." 

"  It  is  serious  ?  " 

"  As  serious  as  can  be." 

Bigourdin  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  "  I  went 
to  sleep  last  night  in  a  commonplace  world,  I  wake  up 
this  morning  to  a  fantastic  universe  in  which  I  seem 
to  be  a  leaf,  like  those  outside  " — he  threw  a  dramatic 
arm — "  driven  by  the  wind.     I  don't  know  whether  I 


ii6  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

am  on  my  head  or  my  heels.  Arrange  things  as  seems 
best  to  you." 

"  You  accept  me  then  as  waiter  in  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes  ?  " 

"  Mon  cher,"  said  Bigourdin, "  in  the  state  of  up- 
heaval in  which  I  find  myself  I  accept  everything." 

The  upheaval,  or  rather  overthrow — for  he  used  the 
word  houleversemenl — of  the  big  man  was  evident. 
He  sat  the  dejected  picture  of  defeat.  No  man  in  the 
throes  of  sea -sickness  ever  cared  less  what  happened  to 
him.  Fortinbras  looked  at  him  shrewdly,  and  his 
thick  lips  formed  themselves  into  a  noiseless  whistle. 
Then  he  exchanged  a  glance  with  Martin,  who  suddenly 
conjectured  the  reason  of  Bigourdin's  depression. 

"  She  ought  to  be  spanked,"  said  he  in  English. 

Fortinbras  beamed  on  him.  "  You  do  owe  some- 
thing to  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  A  lot,"  said  Martin. 

Felise,  her  face  full  of  affairs  of  high  importance,  ran 
into  the  salle  d  manger. 

"  Mon  oncle,  le  Pere  Didier  sends  word  that  he  has 
decided  not  to  kiU  his  calf  till  next  week.  What  shall 
we  do  ?  " 

"  We'll  eat  asparagus,"  Bigourdin  replied,  and 
lumbered  out  into  the  November  drizzle. 

Three  pairs  of  wondering  eyes  sought  among  them- 
selves a  solution  of  this  enigmatic  utterance. 

"  Mais  qu'est-ce  que  cela  veut  dire  ?  "  cried  Felise, 
with  pretty  mouth  agape. 

"  It  means,  my  child,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  that  your 
uncle,  with  a  philosopher's  survey  of  the  destiny  of 
the  brute  creation,  refuses  to  be  moved  either  to 
ecstatic  happiness  or  to  ignoble  anger  by  the  informa- 
tion that  the  life  of  the  obscure  progeny  of  a  bull  and 
a  cow  has  been  spared  for  seven  days.  For  myself  I 
am  glad.  So  is  our  tender-hearted  Martin.  So  are 
you.  The  calf  has  before  him  a  crowded  week  of 
frisky  life.     Send  word  to  Pere  Didier  that  we  are 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  117 

delighted  to  hear  of  his  decision,  and  ask  him  to  crown 
the  calf  with  flowers  and  send  him  along  to-day  for 
afternoon  tea." 

He  smiled  and  waved  a  dismissing  hand.  Fdise, 
laughing,  kissed  him  on  the  forehead  and  tripped 
away,  having  Uttle  time  to  spare  for  pleasantry. 

The  two  men  smoked  in  silence  for  some  time.  At 
last  Fortinbras,  throwing  the  butt-end  of  his  cigarette 
into  Corinna's  coffee-bowl,  rose,  stretched  himself,  and 
yawned  heartily. 

"  Having  now  accomplished  my  benevolent  purpose," 
said  he,  "I  shall  retire  and  take  some  well-earned 
repose.  In  the  meanwhile.  Monsieur  Polydore  Martin, 
you  had  better  enter  upon  your  new  duties." 

So  Martin,  after  he  had  procured  a  tray  and  an 
apron  from  the  pantry,  took  off  his  coat,  turned  up 
his  shirt-sleeves,  and  set  to  work  to  clear  away  the 
breakfast  things. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Behold  Martin,  the  professor,  transformed  into  the 
perfect  waiter — perfect,  at  least  in  zeal,  manner,  and 
habiliment.  His  dress  suit,  of  ancient  cut  but  practi- 
cally unworn,  gave  the  salle  d  manger  an  air  of  startling 
refinement  and  prosperity.  At  first  Bigourdin,  embar- 
rassed by  the  shifting  of  the  relative  position,  had 
deprecated  this  outer  symbol  of  servitude.  A  man 
could  wait  in  a  lounge  suit  just  as  well  as  in  a  tail-coat — 
a  proposition  which  Fortinbras  vehemently  contro- 
verted. He  read  his  perplexed  brother-in-law  a  lecture 
on  the  psychology  of  clothes.  They  had  a  spiritual 
significance,  bringing  subjective  and  objective  into 
harmony.  A  judge  could  not  devote  his  whole  essence 
to  the  administration  of  justice  if  he  were  conscious  of 
being  invested  in  the  glittering  guise  of  a  harlequin. 
If  Martin  wore  the  tweeds  of  the  tourist  he  would  feel 
inharmonious  with  his  true  waiter-self,  and  therefore 
could  not  wait  with  the  perfect  waiter's  spiritual 
deftness.  Besides,  he  had  not  counselled  his  disciple 
to  wait  as  an  amateur.  The  way  of  the  amateur  was 
perdition.  No,  when  Martin  threw  his  napkin  under 
his  left  arm,  he  should  flick  a  bit  of  his  heart  into  its 
folds,  like  a  true  professional. 

"  Arrange  it  as  you  hke,"  said  the  weary  Bigourdin. 

Fortinbras  arranged  and  Martin  became  outwardly 
the  perfect  waiter.  Of  the  craft  itself  he  had  much 
to  learn,  chiefly  under  the  guidance  of  Bigourdin,  and 
sometimes  under  the  shy  instruction  of  Felise.  Its 
many  calls  on  intelligence  and  bodily  skill  surprised 
him.    To  balance  a  piled-up  tray  on  one  bent  back 

ii8 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  119 

hand  required  the  art  of  a  juggler.  He  practised  for 
days  with  a  trayful  of  bricks  before  he  trusted  himself 
with  plates  and  dishes.  By  means  of  this  exercise  his 
arm  became  muscular.  He  discovered  that  the  long 
grave  step  of  the  professor,  especially  when  he  bore  a 
load  of  eatables,  did  not  make  for  the  perfect  waiter's 
celerity.  He  acquired  the  gentle  arts  of  salad-making 
and  folding  napkins  into  fantastic  shapes.  Never 
handy  with  his  fingers,  and,  like  most  temperate  young 
men  in  London  lodgings,  unaccustomed  to  the  cork- 
screw, he  found  the  clean  prestidigitation  of  cork- 
drawing  a  difficult  accomplishment.  But  he  triumphed 
eventually  in  this  as  in  all  other  branches  of  his  new 
industry.  And  he  hked  it.  It  amused  and  interested 
him.  It  was  work  of  which  he  could  see  the  result. 
The  tables  set  before  the  meal  bore  testimony  to  his 
handicraft.  Never  had  plate  been  so  polished,  cutlery 
so  lustrous,  glass  so  transparent  in  the  hundred  years' 
history  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  And  when  the 
guests  assembled  it  was  a  delight  to  serve  them  accord- 
ing to  organized  scheme  and  disarm  criticism  by 
demonstration  of  his  efficiency.  He  rose  early  and 
went  to  bed  late,  tired  as  a  draught-dog,  and  slept  the 
happy  sleep  of  the  contented  human. 

Bigourdin  praised  him,  but  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  What  you  are  doing  it  for,  mon  ami,  I  can't 
imagine." 

"  For  the  good  of  my  soul,"  laughed  Martin,  "  and 
in  order  to  attain  happiness." 

"  Our  good  friends  the  EngUsh  are  a  wonderful 
race,"  said  Bigourdin,  "  and  I  admire  them  enormously, 
but  there's  not  one  of  them  who  isn't  a  Httle  bit  mad." 

To  the  coterie  of  the  Cafe  de  TUnivers,  however,  he 
gave  a  different  explanation  altogether  of  Professor 
Martin's  descent  in  the  social  scale.  The  professor, 
said  he,  had  abandoned  the  professoriat  for  the  more 
lucrative  paths  of  commerce,  and  had  decided  to  open 
an  hotel  in  England,  where  every  one  knew  the  hotels 


120  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

were  villainous  and  provided  nothing  for  their  clients 
but  overdone  bacon  and  eggs  and  raw  beefsteaks. 
The  professor,  more  enlightened  than  his  compatriots, 
was  apprenticing  himself  to  the  business  in  the  orthodox 
continental  fashion.  As  the  substantial  Gaspard 
Bigourdin  himself,  son  of  the  late  equally  substantial, 
although  one-armed  and  one-legged  Armedee  Bigourdin, 
had,  to  the  common  knowledge  of  Brant ome,  served 
as  sculUon,  waiter,  sous-chef  de  cuisine,  sous-maitre 
d'hdtel,  and  bookkeeper  at  various  hotels  in  Lyons  in 
order  to  become  the  bon  hdtelier  that  he  was,  his 
announcement  caused  no  sensation  whatsoever.  The 
professor  of  the  Ecole  Normale  bewailed  his  own  chill 
academic  lot,  and  proclaimed  Monsieur  Martin  an 
exceedingl}'  lucky  fellow. 

"  But,  mon  cher  patron,  it  isn't  true  what  you  have 
said  at  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,"  protested  Martin,  when 
Bigourdin  told  him  of  the  explanation. 

Bigourdin  waved  his  great  arm.  "  How  am  I  to 
know  it  isn't  true  ?  How  am  I  to  get  into  the  English 
minds  of  you  and  my  farceur  of  a  brother-in-law  so  as 
to  discover  why  you  arrive  as  an  honoured  guest  at 
my  hotel,  and  then  in  the  wink  of  an  eye  become  the 
waiter  of  the  establishment  ?  What  am  I  to  say  to 
our  friends  ?  They  wouldn't  care  a  hang  {ils  se 
ficheraient  pas  mal)  for  your  soul.  If  you  are  to 
continue  to  mix  with  them  on  terms  of  equality  they 
must  have  an  explanation,  nom  de  Dieu,  which  they 
can  understand." 

"  I  never  dreamed,"  said  Martin,  "  of  entering  the 
circle  at  the  cafe  again." 

"  Mais,  j'y  ai  pense,  moi,  animal !  "  cried  Bigourdin. 
"  Because  you  have  the  fantasy  of  becoming  my 
waiter,  are  you  any  less  the  same  human  being  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  introducing  to  my  friends  ?  " 

And  then,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  Martin 
appreciated  his  employer's  fine  kindness  and  essential 
loyalty.     It  would  have  been  quite  easy  for  the  inn- 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  121 

keeper  to  dismiss  his  waiter  from  the  consideration  of 
the  hierarchy  of  Brant ome  as  a  mad  Englishman,  an 
adventurer,  not  a  professor  at  all,  but  a  broken-down 
teacher  of  languages  giving  private  lessons — an  odd- 
job  instructor  who  finds  no  respect  in  highly  centralized, 
bureaucratic  France,  but  the  easy  way  was  not  the 
way  of  Gaspard  Bigourdin.  So  Martin,  driven  by 
force  majeure,  lent  himself  to  the  pious  fraud,  and, 
when  the  evening's  work  was  done,  divested  himself 
of  his  sable  panoply  of  waiterdom  and  once  more  took 
his  place  in  the  reserved  cosy  corner  of  the  Caf^  de 
rUnivers. 

The  agreeable  acidity  in  his  life  which  he  missed 
when  Corinna,  graciously  dignified,  had  steamed  off  by 
the  night  train,  he  soon  discovered  in  the  pursuit  of 
his  new  avocation.  Euphemie,  the  cook,  whose  sur- 
reptitious habits  of  uncleanliness,  carefully  hidden  from 
Felise,  but  unavoidably  patent  to  an  agonized  Martin, 
supphed  as  much  sourness  as  his  system  required. 
She  would  not  take  him  seriously,  and  declared  her 
antipathy  to  un  monsieur  in  her  kitchen.  To  bring 
about  an  entente  cordiale  was  for  Martin  an  education 
in  diplomacy.  The  irritabihty  of  a  bilious  commercial 
traveller,  poisoned  by  infected  nourishment  at  his  last 
house  of  entertainment — the  reason  invariably  given 
for  digestive  misadventure — so  that  his  stomach  was 
dislocated,  often  vented  itself  on  the  waiter  serving  an 
irreproachable  repast  at  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  The 
professional  swallowing  of  outraged  feehngs  also  gave  a 
sub-acid  flavour  to  existence.  Motorists,  on  the  other 
hand,  struck  by  his  spruceness  and  polite  demeanour, 
administered  pleasant  tonic  in  the  form  of  praise. 
They  also  bestowed  handsome  tips. 

These  caused  him  some  misgiving.  A  gentleman 
could  be  a  waiter  or  anything  you  pleased,  so  long  as 
it  was  honest,  and  remain  a  gentleman  :  but  could  he 
take  tips  ?  Or  rather,  having  taken  tips,  was  it 
consonant  with  his  gentihty  to  retain  them  ?     Would 


122  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

it  not  be  nobler  to  hand  them  over  to  Baptiste  or 
Euphemie  ?  Bigourdin,  appealed  to,  decided  that  it 
would  be  magnificent,  but  would  inevitably  disorganize 
those  excellent  domestics.  Martin  suggested  the  Assis- 
tance Pnhlique  or  the  church  poor-box. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Bigourdin,  "  you  became  a  waiter 
in  order  to  earn  your  living  ?  " 

"  That  is  so,"  replied  Martin. 

"  Then,"  said  Bigourdin,  "  earn  it  like  a  waiter. 
Suppose  I  were  the  manager  of  a  Grand  Hotel  and 
gave  you  nothing  at  all — as  it  is  your  salary  is  not 
that  of  a  prince — how  would  you  live  ?  You  are  a 
servant  of  the  public.  The  public  pays  you  for  your 
services.  Why  should  you  be  too  proud  to  accept 
payment." 

"  But  a  tip's  a  tip,"  Martin  objected. 

"  It  is  good  money,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  Keep  your 
fine  five-franc  pieces  in  your  pocket  and  elles  fevont  des 
petits,  and  in  course  of  time  you  will  build  with  them 
an  hotel  on  the  Cote  d'Azur." 

In  a  letter  to  Corinna  Martin  mentioned  the  dis- 
quieting problem.  Chafing  in  her  crowded  vicarage 
home  she  offered  little  comfort.  She  made  the  sweeping 
statement  that  whether  he  kept  his  tips  or  not,  the 
whole  business  was  revolting.  He  wrote  to  Fortinbras. 
The  Dealer  in  Happiness  replied  on  a  post  card : 
"  Will  you  never  learn  that  a  sense  of  humour  is  the 
beginning  and  end  of  philosophy  ?  " 

After  which,  Martin,  having  schooled  himself  to  the 
acceptance  of  pourboires,  learned  to  pocket  them  with 
a  professional  air,  and  ended  by  regarding  them  as 
part  of  the  scheme  of  the  universe.  As  the  heavens 
rained  water  on  the  thirsty  fields,  so  did  clients  shower 
silver  coins  on  hungry  waiters.  How  far,  as  yet,  it 
was  good  for  his  soul  he  could  not  determine.  At  any 
rate,  in  his  mild,  unambitious  way,  he  attained  the 
lower  rungs  of  happiness.  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be 
understood  that  if  he  had  entered  as  a  stranger,  say 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  123 

the  employment  of  the  excellent  proprietor  of  the 
excellent  Hotel  de  Commerce  at  Perigueux,  he  would 
have  found  the  same  contentment  of  body  and  spirit. 
The  alleviations  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes  would  have 
been  missing.  His  employer,  while  acknowledging  his 
efficiency,  still  regarded  him  as  an  eccentric  professor, 
and  apart  from  business  relations  treated  him  as  friend 
and  comrade.  The  notables  of  the  town  accepted  him 
as  an  equal.  To  the  cave-dwellers  and  others  of  the 
proletariat  with  whom  he  had  formed  casual  acquaint- 
ance, he  was  still  Monsieur  Martin,  greeted  with  the 
same  shade  of  courteous  deference  as  before,  although 
the  whole  population  of  Brantome  knew  of  his  social 
metamorphosis.  Wherever  he  went,  in  his  walks 
abroad,  he  met  the  genial  smile  and  raised  hat.  He 
contrasted  it  all  with  the  dour  unwelcome  of  the 
North  London  streets.  There  he  had  always  felt  lost, 
a  drab  human  item  of  no  account.  Here  he  had  an 
identity,  pleasantly  proclaimed.  So  would  a  sensitive 
long-sentence  Convict  B  2278,  coming  into  the  world 
of  remembering  men,  rejoice  that  he  was  no  longer  a 
number,  but  that  intensely  individual  entity  Bill 
Smith,  recognized  as  a  lover  of  steak-and-kidney 
pudding.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  seldom  heard  his 
surname.  The  refusal  of  Bigourdin's  organs  of  speech 
to  grapple  with  the  Saxon  Overshaw  has  already  been 
remarked  upon.  From  the  very  first  Bigourdin 
decreed  that  he  should  be  Monsieur  Martin — Martin 
pronounced  French  fashion — and  as  Monsieur  Martin 
he  introduced  him  to  the  Cafd  de  FUnivers,  and 
Monsiem-  Martui  he  was  to  all  Brantome.  But  of 
what  importance  is  a  surname  when  you  are  intimately 
known  by  your  Christian  name  to  all  your  acquaintance. 
Who  in  the  world  save  his  mother  and  the  Hastings 
family  had  for  dreary  ages  past  called  him  Martin  ? 
Now  he  was  Martin — or  Monsieur  Martin — a  designa- 
tion which  agreeably  combined  familiarity  with  respect 
— to    all    who    mattered   in    P^rigord.     It    must    be 


124  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

remembered  that  it  was  an  article  of  faith  among  the 
good  Brantomois  that,  in  Perigord,  only  Brantome 
mattered. 

"  You  people  are  far  too  good  to  me,"  he  remarked 
one  day  to  Bigourdin.     "  It  is  a  large-hearted  country." 

"  Did  I  not  say,  my  friend,"  replied  Bigourdin, 
"  that  Perigord  would  take  you  to  her  bosom  ?  " 

And  then  there  was  F^lise,  who  in  her  capacity  of 
task-mistress  called  him  peremptorily  Martin  ;  but  out 
of  official  hours  nearly  always  prefixed  the  "  Monsieur." 
She  created  an  atmosphere  of  grace  around  the  plates 
and  dishes,  her  encouraging  word  sang  for  long  after- 
wards in  his  ears.  With  a  tact  only  to  be  found  in 
democratic  France  she  combined  the  authority  of  the 
superior  with  the  intellectual  inferior's  respect.  Appa- 
rently she  concerned  herself  little  about  his  change  of 
profession.  Her  father,  the  all-wise  and  all-perfect, 
had  ordained  it ;  her  uncle,  wise  and  perfect,  had 
acquiesced  ;  Martin,  peculiarly  wise  and  almost  perfect, 
had  accepted  it  with  enthusiasm.  Who  was  she  to 
question  the  doings  of  inscrutable  men  ? 

They  met  perforce  more  often  than  during  his  guest- 
hood,  and,  their  common  interests  being  multiplied, 
their  relations  became  more  familiar.  They  had 
reached  now  the  period  of  the  year's  stress,  that  of  the 
great  foie  gras  making,  when  fatted  geese  were  slain, 
and  the  masses  of  swollen  liver  were  extracted,  and  the 
huge  baskets  of  black  warty  truffles  were  brought  in 
from  the  beech  forests  where  they  had  been  hunted 
for  by  pigs  and  dogs.  Martin,  Uke  every  one  else  of  the 
household,  devoted  all  his  spare  moments  to  helping 
in  the  steaming  kitchen  supervised  by  a  special  chef, 
and  in  the  long,  clean-smelling  workroom  where  rows 
of  white-aproned  girls  prepared  and  packed  the 
delectable  compound.  Here  Bigourdin  presided  in 
brow-knit  majesty,  and  Felise  bustled  a  smiling  second 
in  command. 

"  It  is  well  to  learn  everything,"  she  said  to  Martin. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  125 

"  Who  knows  when  you  may  be  glad  to  have  been 
taught  how  to  make  pdU  de  foie  gras  ?  " 

So  Martin,  though  such  a  course  was  not  contem- 
plated in  his  agreement  with  the  Hotel  des  Grottes, 
received  much  instruction  from  her  in  the  dehcate 
craft,  which  was  very  pleasant  indeed.  And  the  girls 
looked  on  at  the  lessons  after  the  way  of  their  kind, 
and  exchanged  glances  one  with  another,  and  every 
one,  save  perhaps  Bigourdin,  who  had  not  yet  recovered 
his  serenity  overclouded  by  Corinna's  rejection  of  his 
suit,  was  exceedingly  contented. 

And  then,  lo  and  behold,  into  this  terrestrial  paradise 
strayed  the  wandering  feet  of  Lucien  Viriot. 

Not  that  Lucien  was  unexpected.  His  father, 
Monsieur  Viriot,  marchand  de  vin  en  gros,  and  one  of 
the  famous  circle  at  the  Ca.i6  de  I'Univers,  had  for  the 
past  month  or  two  nightly  proclaimed  the  approaching 
release  of  the  young  man  from  mihtary  service. 
Martin  had  heard  him.  Bigourdin,  on  their  walks 
home  together,  had  dilated  on  the  heaven-decreed 
union  of  the  two  young  people  and  the  lonehness  of 
his  lot.  Where  would  he  find,  at  least,  such  a  menagere 
as  Felise  ? 

"  It's  a  pity  Corinna  hadn't  any  sense,"  said  Martin 
on  one  of  these  occasions. 

Bigourdin  heaved  a  mighty  sigh.  "  Ah,  mon  vieux !  " 
said  he  by  way  of  answer.  The  sigh  and  the  "Ah, 
mon  vieux!"  were  eloquent  of  shattered  ideals, 

"  There  is  always  Madame  ThuiUier,  who  used  to 
help  me  when  Fehse  was  Uttle,"  he  continued  after  a 
while  meditatively.  "  She  has  experience,  but  she  is 
as  ugly  as  a  monkey,  the  poor  woman  !  " 

Whereupon  he  sighed  again,  leaving  Martin  in  doubt 
as  to  the  exact  position  he  intended  the  iU-favoured 
lady  to  occupy  in  his  household. 

Anyhow,  Martin  was  forewarned  of  the  ex-warrior's 
advent.  So  was  Fehse.  "  But  I  cannot  leave  you, 
mon   ancle,"    she   cried   in    dismay.     "What   would 


126  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

become  of  you  ?  Who  would  mend  your  linen  ? 
What  would  become  of  the  hotel  ?  VlHiat  would 
become  of  the  fabrique  ?  " 

"  Bah ! "  said  he,  snapping  his  fingers  at  such 
insignificant  considerations.  "  There  is  always  the 
brave  Madame  Thuillier." 

"  But  I  thought  you  detested  her — as  much  as  you 
can  detest  anybody." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  mon  enfant,"  rephed  Bigourdin. 
"  I  have  a  great  regard  for  her.  She  has  striking 
qualities.  She  is  a  woman  of  ripe  age  and  much 
common  sense." 

Which  shows  how  double-tongued  men  may  be. 

"  C'est  une  vieille  pimbeche  !  "  cried  FeHse. 

"  Tais-toi,"  said  Bigourdin  severely.  For  a  vieille 
pimbeche  means  at  the  very  least  a  horrid  old  tabby 
vidth  her  claws  out. 

"  I  won't  be  silent,"  laughed  F6Hse  rebelliously. 
"  C'est  line  vieille  pimbeche,  and  I'm  not  going  to 
leave  you  to  her.  I  don't  want  to  leave  you.  I  don't 
want  to  marry." 

"  That  is  what  all  little  girls  say,"  rephed  Bigourdin. 
"  But  when  you  see  Lucien  return,  joli  gargon,  holding 
his  head  in  the  air  like  a  brave  little  soldier  of  France, 
and  looking  at  you  out  of  his  honest  eyes,  you  will  no 
longer  tell  me,  '  Je  ne  veux  pas  me  marier,  mon  oncle.'  " 

She  laughed  at  his  outrageous  mimicry  of  a  modest 
little  girl's  accent. 

"  It's  true  all  the  same,"  she  retorted.  "  I  don't 
want  to  marry  anybody,  and  Lucien,  after  having  seen 
all  the  pretty  girls  of  Paris,  won't  want  to  marry  me." 

"  If  he  doesn't — !  "  cried  Bigourdin  threateningly. 
"  If  he  dares " 

"  WeU,  what  then  ?  "  asked  Fehse. 

"  I'U  have  a  serious  conversation  with  his  father," 
declared  Bigourdin. 

Thus  both  Martin  and  FeUse,  as  I  have  said,  were 
forewarned.     Yet   neither   took  much   notice   of   the 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  127 

warning.  Martin  had  been  aware,  all  along,  of  the 
destiny  decreed  for  her  by  the  omnipotent  Triumvirate 
consisting  of  her  uncle,  the  bon  Dieu,  and  Monsieur 
Viriot,  and,  regarding  her  as  being  sealed  to  another, 
had  walked  with  Martin-like  circumspection  (subject,  in 
days  not  long  since  past,  for  Corinna's  raillery)  along 
the  boider-Hne  of  the  forbidden  land  of  tenderness. 
But  this  judicious  and  conscientious  skirting  had  its 
charm.  I  would  have  you  again  realize  that  the 
eternal  feminine  had  entered  his  life  only  in  the  guise — 
first,  of  the  kissed  damsel  who  married  the  onion-loving 
plumber  ;  secondly,  of  Corinna,  by  whose  "  Bo  !  "  he 
had  been  vastly  terrified  until  he  had  taken  successfully 
to  saying  "  Bo  !  "  himself,  a  process  destructive  of 
romantic  regard  ;  and  thirdly,  of  Fehse,  a  creature — 
he  alwaj^s  remembered  Fortinbras's  prejudiced  descrip- 
tion— "  like  one  of  the  wild  flowers  from  which  Alpine 
honey  is  made,"  and  compact  of  notable,  gentle,  and 
adorable  quahties.  Naturally,  of  the  three,  he  pre- 
ferred Fehse.  Fehse,  for  her  part,  hke  the  well-brought- 
up  damsel  of  the  French  bourgeoisie,  never  allowed 
her  eyelids  to  register  the  fiutterings  of  the  heart 
which  the  mild  young  Englishman's  society  set  in 
action.  She  scarcely  admitted  the  fiutterings  to  her- 
self. Possibl}^  if  he  had  been  smitten  with  a  fine 
frenzy  of  love-making  she  would  have  been  shocked. 
But  as  he  shov\'ed  respectful  gratification  at  being 
allowed  to  consort  with  her,  and  gratitude  for  her  httle 
bits  of  sympathetic  understanding,  and  as  she  found 
she  could  talk  with  him  more  spontaneously  than  with 
any  other  young  man  she  had  ever  met,  she  sought 
rather  than  avoided  the  many  daily  opportunities  for 
pleasant  intercourse.  And  there  was  not  the  least 
harm  in  it ;  and  the  bogey  of  a  Lucien  (whom  she  had 
liked  well  enough  years  ago  in  a  childish  way)  was  still 
hundreds  of  miles  from  Brantome.  In  fact  they 
entered  upon  as  pretty  a  Daphnis  and  Chloe  idyll  as 
ever  was  enacted  by  a  pair  of  innocents. 


128  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Then,  one  fine  day,  as  I  have  stated,  in  swaggered 
Lucien  Viriot,  ex-cuirassier,  and  spoiled  the  whole 
thing. 

His  actual  hour  of  swaggering  into  Martin's  ken  was 
unexpected — by  Martin,  at  any  rate.  He  was  playing 
backgammon  with  the  Professor  of  the  Ecole  Normale 
in  the  midst  of  elders  discussing  high  matters  of  local 
politics,  when  all  of  a  sudden  an  uproar  arose  among 
these  grave  and  reverend  seniors,  clapping  of  hands  and 
ratthng  on  tables,  and  Martin,  looking  up  from  his 
throw  of  the  dice,  perceived  the  stout,  square-headed, 
close-cropped  Monsieur  Viriot,  marchand  de  vin  en  gros, 
his  eyes  sparkhng  and  his  cheeks  flushed  above  his 
white  moustache  and  imperial,  advancing  from  the 
cafe  door,  accompanied  by  his  square-headed,  close- 
cropped,  sturdy,  smihng,  swaggeringly  sheepish,  youth- 
ful replica.  And  when  they  reached  the  group,  the 
young  man  bowed  punctiliously  before  grasping  each 
outstretched  hand  ;  and  every  one  called  him  "  mon 
brave,"  to  which  he  repUed  "  bien  aimable "  ;  and 
Monsieur  Viriot  presented  himformially — "monfds  qui 
vient  de  terminer  son  service  militaire  " — to  Monsieur 
Beuzot,  professeur  d  V Ecole  Normale,  a  new-comer  to 
Brantdme,  and  to  Monsieur  Martin,  ancien  professeur 
anglais.  Whereupon  Monsieur  Lucien  Viriot  declared 
himself  enchanted  at  meeting  the  two  learned  gentle- 
men, and  the  two  learned  gentlemen  reciprocated  the 
emotion  of  enchantment.  Then  amid  scuffling  of 
chairs  and  eager  help  of  waiters,  room  was  made  for 
Monsieur  Viriot  and  Monsieur  Lucien ;  and  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  cafe.  Monsieur  Cazensac,  swarthy,  portly 
and  heavy-]' owled,  a  Gascon  from  Agen,  who,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  took  the  good,  easy  folk  of  Perigord 
under  his  protection,  came  up  from  behind  the  high 
bottle-armamented  counter,  where  Madame  Cazensac, 
fat  and  fair,  prodigally  beamed  on  the  chance  of  a  ray 
reaching  the  hero  of  the  moment — which  happened 
indeed   before   Cazensac   could  get   in   a   word,   and 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  129 

brought  Lucien  to  his  feet  in  a  splendid  spread  of 
homage  to  the  lady — Monsieur  Cazensac,  I  say,  came 
up  and  grasped  Lucien  by  the  hand  and  welcomed  him 
back  to  the  home  of  his  fathers.  He  turned  to  Monsieur 
Viriot. 

"  Monsieur  orders ?  " 

"  Du  vin  de  champagne." 

Happy  land  of  provincial  France  where  you  order 
champagne  as  you  order  brandy  and  soda,  and  are 
contented  when  you  get  it.  There  is  no  worry  about 
brand  or  vintage  or  whether  the  wine  is  hrut  or  extra-sec. 
You  just  tell  the  good  landlord  to  bring  you  champagne, 
and  he  produces  the  sweet,  sticky,  frothy,  genuine 
stuff,  and  if  you  are  a  Frenchman,  you  are  perfectly 
delighted.  It  is  champagne,  the  wine  of  feasts,  the 
wine  of  ceremony,  the  wine  of  ladies,  the  wine  of 
toasts — Je  live  mon  verre — if  the  upUfted  glass  is  not 
beaded  with  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim,  what  virtue 
is  there  in  the  uplifting  ?  It  is  all  a  symbohcal  matter 
of  sparkle.  ...  So,  at  the  Cafe  de  TUnivers,  Monsieur 
Cazensac  disappeared  portentously,  and  a  few  moments 
later  reappeared  ever  so  much  more  portentously, 
followed  by  two  waiters,  one  bringing  the  foot-high 
sacred  glasses,  the  other  the  uncorked  bottles  labelled 
for  all  who  wished  to  know  what  they  were  drinking  : 
"  Grand  Champagne  d'Ay,"  with  the  vine-proprietor's 
name  inconspicuously  printed  in  the  right-hand  bottom 
corner.  AU,  including  Monsieur  Cazensac,  chnked 
foaming  glasses  with  Lucien,  and  after  they  had  sipped 
in  his  honour,  they  sipped  again  to  the  cries  of  "  Vive 
I'Armee!  "  and  "  Vive  la  France!  "  whereupon  they  all 
settled  down  comfortably  again  to  the  enjoyment  of 
replenished  goblets  of  the  effervescing  syrup. 

Martin  looked  with  some  envj^  at  the  young  man 
who  sat  flushed  with  his  ovation  and  twisted  his  black 
moustache  to  the  true  cuirassier's  angle,  yet  bore 
himself  modestly  among  his  elders.  Willing  and  gay 
of  heart,  he  had  given  the  years  of  his  youth  to  the 


130  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

service  of  his  country  ;  when  the  great  struggle  should 
come — and  all  agreed  it  was  near — he  would  be  one  of 
the  first  to  be  summoned  to  defend  her  liberty,  and  he, 
willing  and  gay  of  heart,  he  would  ride  to  his  death. 
And  now  ...  in  the  meanwhile,  he  had  returned  to 
the  little  square  hole  in  France  that  had  been  ordained 
for  him  (Httle  square  peg)  before  he  was  born,  and  was 
to  be  reserved  for  him  as  long  as  his  life  shou^u  last. 
And  Martin  looked  again  at  the  chosen  child  of  destiny, 
and  this  time  with  admiration,  for  he  knew  him  to  be 
a  man  ;  a  man  of  the  solid  French  stock  that  makes 
France  unshakable,  of  the  stock  that  in  peace  may  be 
miserly  of  its  pence,  but  in  war  is  lavish  of  its  blood. 
"  I  am  not  that  young  fellow's  equal,"  thought  Martin 
humbly  ;  and  he  felt  glad  that  he  had  not  betrayed 
Bigourdin's  trust  with  regard  to  Felise.  What  kind  of 
a  wretch  would  he  have  been  to  set  himself  up  as  a 
rival  to  Lucien  Viriot  ?  Bigourdin  had  been  right  in 
proclaiming  the  marriage  as  arranged  by  the  honDieu. 
He  loved  Felise — who  knowing  her  did  not  ?  But  he 
loved  her  in  brotherly  fashion,  and  could  reconcile  it 
to  his  heart  to  bestow  her  on  one  so  worthy.  And  all 
this  without  taking  into  account  the  sentiments  of 
Felise.  Her  heart,  in  mihtary  phrase,  was  an  open 
town.     Lucien  had  but  to  march  in  and  take  it. 

After  a  while  Lucien,  having  looked  about  the  cafe, 
rose  and  went  from  table  to  table  where  sat  those 
citizens  who,  by  reason  of  lowher  social  status  or 
personal  idiosyncrasies,  had  not  been  admitted  into  the 
Inner  Coterie  of  Notables,  and  greeted  old  acquain- 
tances. Monsieur  Viriot  then  caught  Martin's  eye  and 
lifted  his  glass. 

"  A  voire  sante,  Monsieur  Martin." 

Martin  bowed.     "  A  la  voire,  monsieur  !  " 

"  I  hope  that  you  and  my  son  will  be  good  friends. 

It  is  important  that  the  youth  of  our  two  countries,  so 

friendly,  so  intimately  bound,  should  learn  to  know 

and  appreciate  each  other ;    especially  when  one  of 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  131 

them,    like   yourself,    has    the    power    of    translating 
England  into  terms  of  France." 

And  with  the  courteous  simplicity  of  a  grey,  square- 
headed,  close-cropped  marchand  de  vin  en  gros,  he 
lifted  his  glass  again. 

"  A  V Entente  Cordiale." 

When  Lucien  returned  to  the  circle,  his  father 
reintroduced  liim  to  Martin. 

"  In  fact,"  he  concluded,  "  here  is  an  EngHshman 
who  not  only  speaks  French  Hke  you  and  me,  but  eats 
truffles  and  talks  the  idiom  of  the  quarrymen  and  is 
qualifying  himself  to  be  a  good  Perigourdin." 

It  was  charmingly  said.  The  company  hummed 
approval. 

"  Cest  bien  vrai,"  said  Bigourdin. 

Lucien  again  bowed.  He  would  do  himself  the 
honour  of  presenting  himself  at  monsieur's  hotel. 
Monsieur  was  doubtless  staying  at  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes. 

"  Monsieur  Bigourdin  has  taken  me  as  a  waiter  into 
his  service,"  replied  Martin. 

"Ah!  Tant  mieux!"  exclaimed  Lucien,  as  if  the 
announcement  were  the  most  ordinary  one  in  the 
world,  and  shook  hands  with  him  heartily. 

"  Like  that,  as  my  father  says,  one  becomes  a  good 
Perigourdin." 

So  Martin  went  home  and  went  contentedly  to  bed. 
Again  a  httle  corner  of  the  earth  that  he  might  call  his 
own  was  offered  him  in  this  new  land  so  courteous  to, 
yet  so  sensitively  aloof  from,  the  casual  Englishman, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  so  generous  and  hospitable  to 
the  Enghshman  into  whom  the  spirit  of  France  has 
entered.  Was  there  here,  thought  he,  the  little  round 
hole  which  he,  httle  round  peg,  after  thirty  years  of 
square-holed  discomfort,  had  been  preordained  to  fill  ? 
The  thought  soothed  him. 

He  woke  up  in  the  night,  worried  by  some  confused 
dream.     In  his  head  stuck  the  Latin  tag  :   Ubi  bene,  ibi 


132  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

patria.  He  kicked  indignantly  against  the  aphorism. 
It  was  the  infamous  philosophy  of  the  Epicurean 
opportunist.  If  he  had  been  comfortable  in  Germany 
would  he  regard  Germany  as  his  fatherland  ?  A 
million  times  no.  When  you  wake  up  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning  to  a  soul-stirring  proposition,  you 
think  in  terms  of  millions.  He  was  English  of  the 
English.  His  Swiss  mother dom  was  but  an  acci- 
dent of  begetting.  He  was  of  his  father's  race. 
Switzerland  did  not  exist  in  his  being  as  a  national 
influence.  English,  narrowly,  stupidly,  proudly 
he  was,  and  English  he  would  remain  to  the  end 
of  time.  To  denaturalize  himself  and  become  a 
Frenchman — still  less  a  mere  Perigourdin — was  abhor- 
rent. But  to  remain  an  Englishman,  and  as  an 
Englishman — an  obscure  and  menial  Englishman — to 
be  given  the  freedom  of  a  province  of  old  France  was 
an  honour  of  which  any  man  breathing  the  breath  of 
life  might  be  justly  proud.  I  can,  thought  he,  in  the 
intense,  lunatic  clarity  of  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
show  France  what  England  stands  for.  I  have  a 
chance  of  one  in  a  million.  I  am  an  Englishman  given 
a  home  in  the  France  that  I  am  learning  to  love  and 
to  understand,  I  am  a  hyphen  between  the  two  nations. 
Having  settled  that,  he  turned  over,  tucked  the 
bedclothes  well  round  his  shoulders,  and  went  soundly 
to  sleep  again. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  FEW  evenings  afterwards  Bigourdin  gave  a  dinner 
of  ceremony  to  the  Viriots — and  a  dinner  of  ceremony 
in  provincial  France  is  a  very  ceremonious  and  elaborate 
affair.  All  day  long  there  had  been  anxious  prepara- 
tions. Felise,  abandoning  the  fabrique,  toiled  assi- 
duously with  Euphemie,  while  Bigourdin,  expert  chej 
like  all  good  hotel-keepers,  controlled  everything  with 
his  master  touch.  The  crazily  ceremonious  hour  of 
seven-thirty  was  fixed  upon  ;  not  only  on  account  of 
its  ceremoniousness,  but  because  by  that  time  the 
commercial  travellers  would  have  finished  their  meal 
and  melted  away.  The  long  middle  table  was  replaced 
by  a  round  table  prodigally  adorned  with  flowers  and 
four  broad  tricolour  ribbons,  each  hke  the  sash  of 
Monsieur  le  Maire,  radiating  from  under  a  central 
silver  epergne  laden  with  fruit,  of  which  a  pine-apple 
was  the  crown.  A  bewildering  number  of  glasses  of 
different  shapes  stood  at  each  place,  to  be  filled,  each 
kind  in  its  separate  order,  with  the  wine  ordained  for 
each  separate  course.  Martin  rehearsed  the  wine 
service  over  and  over  again  with  a  solemn  Bigourdin. 
As  a  lieutenant  he  had  the  plongeur  (or  washer-up  ol 
glass  and  crockery)  from  the  Cafe  de  TUnivers,  an 
earnest  neophyte  tense  with  the  excitement  of  practising 
a  higher  branch  of  his  profession. 

Hosts  and  guests  were  ceremoniously  attired ; 
Bigourdin  and  the  elder  Viriot  suffocated  in  tightly 
buttoned  frock-coats  of  venerable  and  painful  fit ; 
Lucien,  more  dashing,  wore  a  morning-coat  (last  cry 
of  Bond  Street)   acquired  recently  from  the  "  High 

133 


134  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Life "  emporium  in  Paris ;  all  three  men  retained 
yellow  dogskin  gloves  until  they  sat  down  to  table. 
Madame  Viriot,  stout  and  placid,  appeared  in  her 
black  silk  dress  and  an  old  lace  collar  and  her  very 
best  hat  with  her  very  best  black  ostrich  feather 
secured  by  the  old  rose-diamond  buckle,  famous 
throughout  the  valley  of  the  Dordogne,  which  had 
belonged  to  her  great-great-grandmother  ;  and,  lastly, 
Felise  wore  a  high-necked  simple  frock  of  dazzling 
whiteness  which  might  have  shown  up  her  deHcate 
dark  colouring  had  not  her  cheeks  been  inordinately 
pale. 

Bigourdin  had  Madame  Viriot  on  his  right.  Monsieur 
Viriot  on  his  left,  and  FeHse  sat  between  Monsieur 
Viriot  and  Lucien.  Every  one  was  most  ceremoniously 
polite.  It  was  "  mon  cher  Viriot "  and  "  mon  chef 
Bigourdin,"  and  the  formal  "  vous,"  instead  of  the 
"  mon  vieiix  "  and  the  "  tu"  oi  the  cafe  and  of  ordinary 
life  ;  also,  "  chere  madame,"  and  "  Monsieur  Lucien," 
and  "  ma  niece."  And  although  from  childhood 
Felise  and  Lucien  had  called  each  other  by  their 
Christian  names,  it  was  now  "  monsieur  "  and  "  made- 
moiselle "  between  them.  You  see,  marriage  is  in 
France  a  deuce  of  a  ceremony  which  begins  months 
before  anybody  dreams  of  setting  the  wedding-bells 
a-ringing.  This  dinner  of  ceremony  was  the  first  scene 
of  the  first  act  of  the  elaborate  drama  which  would 
end  on  the  curtain  being  rung  down  to  the  aforesaid 
wedding-bells.  Really,  when  one  goes  into  the  ques- 
tion and  considers  all  the  barbed  wire  entanglements 
that  French  law  and  custom  interpose  between  two 
young  people  who  desire  to  become  man  and  wife,  one 
not  only  wonders  how  any  human  pair  can  go  through 
the  ordeal  and  ever  marry  at  all,  but  is  profoundly 
convinced  that  France  is  the  most  moral  country  on 
the  face  of  the  globe.     As  a  matter  of  fact  it  is. 

It  was  a  long  meal  of  many  courses.  Martin,  aided 
by  the  plongeur,  acquitted  himself  heroically.     Manners 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  135 

professional  and  individual,  and  also  the  strain  of 
service,  prevented  him  from  attending  to  the  conversa- 
tion. But  what  he  could  not  avoid  overhearing  did 
not  impress  him  with  its  brilliance.  It  was  a  self- 
conscious  little  company.  It  threw  about  statistics  as 
to  the  state  of  the  truffle  crop  ;  it  listened  to  Lucien's 
modest  anecdotes  of  his  military  career  ;  it  decided 
that  Parisians  were  greatly  to  be  pitied  in  that  fate 
compelled  them  to  live  in  Paris  instead  of  Brantome. 
Even  the  flush  of  good  cheer  failed  to  inspire  it  with 
heartiness.  For  this  perhaps  the  scared  unresponsive- 
ness of  one  of  the  chief  personages  was  responsible. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  dogs,  mademoiselle  ?  "  asked 
Lucier,  valiant  in  small  talk. 

"  Out,  monsieur,"  replied  Felise. 

"  Have  you  any  now,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Non,  monsieur,"  replied  Felise. 

"  The  beautiful  poodle  that  was  so  clever  is  dead,  I 
believe,"  remarked  Madame  Viriot  in  support  of  her 
son. 

"  Oui,  madame,"  replied  Felise. 

However  alluring  to  the  young  Frenchman  about 
to  marry  may  be  timid  innocence  with  downcast  eyes, 
yet,  when  it  is  to  such  a  degree  monosyllabic,  conversa- 
tion does  not  sparkle.  Martin,  accustomed  to  her 
tongue  wagging  charmingly,  wondered  at  her  silence. 
What  more  attractive  companion  could  she  desire 
than  the  heau  sahreur  by  her  side  ?  And  she  ate  next 
to  nothing.  When  she  was  about  to  decline  a  hecasse 
ail  fumet,  as  to  the  success  of  which  Euphemie's  heart 
was  beating  like  a  sledge-hammer,  he  whispered  in  her 
ear: 

"  Just  a  little  bit.     Do." 

And  as  she  helped  herself,  he  saw  the  colour  mount 
to  her  neck.  He  felt  quite  pleased  at  having  prevailed 
on  her  to  take  nourishment. 

What  happened  after  the  meal  in  the  private  salon, 
where  FeUse,  according  to  sacred  rite,  served  coffee 


136  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

and  liqueurs,  Martin  did  not  know.  He  was  too  busy 
with  Euphemie  and  the  chambermaid  and  Baptiste 
and  the  plongeur  in  cleaning  up  after  the  banquet. 
Besides,  as  the  waiter  of  the  establishment,  what 
should  he  have  been  doing  in  that  ceremonious 
gathering  ? 

When  the  work  was  finished  and  a  concluding  orgy 
on  broken  meats  and  half-emptied  bottles  had  been 
temperately  concluded,  and  Euphemie  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  had  been  informed  of  the  exact  appreciation 
which  each  particular  dish  had  received  from  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Viriot — "  young  people,  you  see,"  she 
explained,  "  have  their  own  affairs,  and  they  see  every- 
thing rose-colour,  and  you  could  give  them  boiled 
horse-liver  and  they  wouldn't  know  the  difference 
between  that  and  ris  de  veau  a  Vimperiale ;  it  doesn't 
matter  what  you  put  into  the  stomachs  of  children; 
but  with  old,  serious  folk,  it  is  very  important.  I 
made  the  stomach  of  Monsieur  Viriot  the  central  idea 
of  my  dinner — I  have  known  the  stomach  of  Monsieur 
Viriot  for  twenty  years — also  that  of  madame,  for  old 
ladies,  voyez-voiis,  know  more  than  you  think" — and 
when  the  weary  and  zealous  servants  had  gone  their 
separate  ways,  Martin  locked  up,  and,  escaping  from 
the  generous  atmosphere  of  the  kitchen,  entered  the 
dimly  ht  vestibule  with  the  idea  of  smoking  a  quiet 
cigarette  before  going  to  bed.  There  he  found  Bigourdin, 
sprawling  his  great  bulk  over  the  cane-seated  couch. 

"  Did  things  go  all  right  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Wonderfully.  Everybody  dined  well.  They  can  go 
to  the  han  and  arriere-ban  of  their  friends  and  relations 
and  say  that  there  is  not  such  a  cuisine  in  Perigord  as 
at  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  And  the  service  was 
excellent.  Not  the  smallest  hitch.  I  congratulate 
you  and  thank  you,  mon  ami.  But  oufl" — he  took 
a  great  breath  of  relief — "  I  am  glad  it  is  over.  I  was 
not  built  for  the  formahties  of  society,  fa  vous 
fatigue !  " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  137 

"  It's  also  fatiguing  from  the  waiter's  point  of  view," 
laughed  Martin. 

"  But  it  is  all  necessary  when  one  has  a  young  girl 
to  marry.  The  father  and  mother  of  the  young  man 
expect  it.  It  is  very  compUcated.  Soon  there  will 
be  the  formal  demand  in  marriage.  They  wiU  wear 
gloves — c'est  idiot — but  what  would  you  have  ?  It  is 
the  custom.  And  then  there  will  be  a  dinner  of 
ceremony  at  the  Viriots'.  He  has  some  Chambertin  in 
his  ceUar,  my  old  friend  Viriot — ah  !  mon  petit  Martin," 
he  blew  a  kiss  to  the  purple  goddess  beloved  of  Bacchus, 
and  bj7  him  melted  into  each  cobwebbed  bottle — "  it 
is  the  only  thing  that  reconciles  me  to  it.  One  dines 
admirably  at  the  Viriots'.  If  he  does  not  produce 
some  of  that  Chambertin,  I  withdraw  the  dowry  of 
Felise." 

"  It's  all  arranged  then  ?  "  Martin  asked. 

"  AU  what  ?  " 

"  The  marriage." 

"  Without  doubt." 

"  Then  Monsieur  Lucien  has  been  accepted  by 
Mademoiselle  Felise  ?  I  mean,  he  has  proposed  to 
her,  as  we  English  say  ?  " 

"Mais  non!"  cried  Bigourdin,  with  a  shocked  air. 
"  Lucien  is  a  correctly  brought  up  young  man  and 
would  not  offend  the  proprieties  in  that  manner.  It 
is  not  the  affair  of  Lucien  and  Felise,  it  is  the  affair  of 
the  two  families,  the  parents  ;  and  for  FeHse  I  am 
in  loco  parentis.  Propose  to  Felise !  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?  " 

"  It  aU  interests  me  so  much,"  replied  Martin.  "  In 
England  we  manage  differently.  When  a  man  wants 
to  marry  a  girl,  he  asks  her,  and  when  they  have  fixed 
up  everything  between  themselves,  they  go  and 
announce  the  fact  to  their  families." 

To  which  Bigourdin  made  the  amazing  answer  : 

"  C'esi  le  phlegme  britannique  !  " 

British    phlegm !     When    a    man    takes    his    own 


138  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

unphlegmatic  way  with  a  maid  !  Martin  could  find  no 
adequate  retort.  He  was  knocked  into  a  cocked  hat. 
He  threw  away  his  cigarette  and,  being  very  tired, 
half  stifled  a  yawn.  Bigourdin  responded  mightily 
and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Allans  dodo,"  said  he.  "  All  this  has  been  terribly 
fatiguing." 

So  fatiguing  had  it  cdl  been  that  FeKse,  for  the  first 
time  since  the  chicken-pox  and  measles  of  childhood, 
remained  in  her  bed  the  next  day.  Euphemie,  her 
personal  attendant,  found  her  in  the  morning  a  wan 
ghost  with  a  splitting  headache,  and  forbade  her  to 
rise.  She  filled  her  up  with  tilleid,  the  decoction  of 
lime-leaves  which  in  French  households  is  the  panacea 
for  all  ills,  and,  good  and  comfortable  gossip,  extolled, 
in  Gallic  hyperbole,  the  dazzling  qualities  of  Monsieur 
Lucien.  At  last,  fever-eyed  and  desperate,  Felise  sat 
up  in  bed  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

"Ma  bonne  Euphemie,  laisse-moi  iranquille !  Va- 
t'en  !     Fich'-moi  la  paix  I  " 

Euphemie  gaped  in  bewilderment.  It  was  as  though 
a  dove  had  screamed  : 

"  Leave  me  alone  !     Go  away  !     Go  to  Blazes  !  " 

"Ah,  Id,  Id  I  ma  pauvre  petite ! "  Euphemie 
knew  not  what  she  was  saying,  but  she  went.  She 
went  to  Bigourdin  and  told  him  that  mademoiselle 
was  in  delirium,  she  had  brain-fever,  and  if  he  wanted 
to  save  her  reason,  he  must  send  at  once  for  the  doctor. 
The  doctor  came,  diagnosed  a  chill  on  the  vaguest  of 
sym.ptoms,  and  ordered  soupe  d  I'huile.  This  invalid 
fare  is  a  thin  vegetable  soup  with  a  layer  of  salad  oil 
floating  on  the  top,  with  the  object  of  making  the 
liquid  slip  gratefully  down  the  gullet :  the  French 
gullet,  be  it  understood.  FeUse,  in  spite  of  her  lifelong 
French  training,  had  so  much  of  England  lingering  in 
her  oesophagus  that  it  abhorred  soupe  d  I'huile.  The 
good  doctor's  advice  failed.     She  fasted  in  bed  all  day, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  139 

declaring  that,  headache  apart,  she  was  perfectly  well, 
and  the  following  morning,  a  wraith  of  herself,  arose 
and  went  about  her  ordinary  avocations. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  "  asked  Bigour- 
din  of  Martin.  "  Nothing  could  have  disagreed  with 
her  at  that  abominable  dinner,  because  she  didn't  eat 
an3^hing." 

As  Martin  could  throw  no  light  on  the  sudden 
malady  of  FeUse,  Bigourdin  lit  a  cigarette  and  inhaled 
a  huge  puff. 

"  It  needs  a  woman,  voyez-vous,  to  look  after  a 
young  girl.  Men  are  no  good.  There  are  a  heap  of 
secrets  " — wdth  his  arms  he  indicated  a  Mont  Blanc 
piled  on  Mount  Everest.  "  I  shall  be  glad  when  she 
is  well  and  duly  married.  Perhaps  the  approaching 
betrothal  affects  her.  Women  have  nerves  hke  that. 
She  is  anxious  to  know  the  result  of  the  negotiations. 
At  the  present  moment  the  Viriots  are  free  to  make  or 
make  not  their  demand.  It  would  be  good  to  reassure 
her  a  Httle.     What  do  you  think  ?  " 

Martin  gave  utterance  to  the  profound  apophthegm  : 
"  There  is  nothing  so  upsetting  as  uncertainty." 

"  That  is  my  idea  !  "  cried  Bigourdin.  "  Pardon  me 
for  consulting  you  on  these  details  so  intimate  and  a 
little  sacred.  But  you  have  a  clear  intelligence  and  a 
loyal  heart." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that,  after  dejeuner,  Bigourdin 
took  FeHse  into  their  o\\ti  primly  and  plushily  furnished 
salon,  and,  like  an  amiable  bull  in  a  boudoir,  proceeded 
to  smash  up  the  whole  of  her  universe. 

"  There  is  no  doubt,"  he  proclaimed,  "  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Viriot  have  dreamed  of  it  for  ten  years.  I 
give  you  a  dowry — there  is  no  merit  in  it,  because  I 
love  you  like  my  own  daughter — but  I  give  you  a 
dowry  such  as  there  are  not  many  in  Perigord.  Lucien 
loves  you.  He  is  bon  gargon.  It  has  never  entered 
his  head  to  think  of  another  woman  for  his  wife.  It 
is   all   arranged.     In   two   or   three   days — you   must 


140  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

allow  for  the  convenances — Monsieur  Viriot  and  Lucien 
will  call  on  me.  So,  my  dear  little  angel,  do  not  be 
afraid." 

Felise  had  listened  to  this,  white-faced  and  hollow- 
eyed.  "  But  I  don't  want  to  marry  Lucien,  mon 
oncle  !  " 

"  Comment  ?    You  don't  want  to  marry  Lucien  ?  " 

"  Non,  mon  oncle." 

"  But "    He  swept  the  air   with  a   protesting 

gesture. 

"  I  have  already  told  you  so,"  said  FeHse. 

"  But,  ma  chere  petite,  that  wasn't  serious.  It  was 
because  you  had  some  stupid  and  beautiful  idea  of  not 
deserting  me.  That  is  all  imbecile.  Young  people 
must  marry,  sacrebleu  I  so  that  the  race  is  perpetuated, 
and  fathers  and  mothers  and  uncles  don't  count." 

"But  what  has  that  to  do  with  it,  mon  oncle}" 
protested  Felise.  "  I  find  Lucien  very  charming ; 
but  I  don't  love  him.  If  I  loved  him,  I  would  marry 
him.     But  as  I  don't  love  him,  I  can't  marry  him." 

"  But  marry  him  and  you  will  love  him,"  cried 
Bigourdin,  as  millions  of  French  fathers  and  uncles 
have  cried  for  the  last  three  or  four  hundred  years. 
"It  is  very  simple.  What  more  do  you  want  than  a 
gallant  fellow  like  Lucien  ?  " 

Then,  of  course,  she  broke  down  and  began  to  cry 
Bigourdin,  unused  to  feminine  tears,  tried  to  clutch 
his  hair.  If  it  had  been  longer  than  half  an  inch  of 
upstanding  bristle,  he  would  have  torn  it. 

"  You  don't  understand,  mon  oncle,"  she  sobbed, 
with  bowed  head.  "It  is  only  my  mother  who  can 
advise  me.     I  must  see  my  mother." 

Bigourdin  put  his  arm  round  the  girl's  slender 
shoulders.  "  Your  mother,  my  poor  Felise,  sees 
nobody." 

She  raised  her  head  and  flashed  out :  "  She  sees  my 
father.  She  hves  with  him  in  the  same  house.  Why 
shouldn't  she  see  me  ?  " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Tiens,    Hens,    my    little    Felise,"    said    Bi^ 
soothingly.     "  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  Cc 
your  mother.     Both  your  father  and  your  mother  U 
a   long   while   ago   decided   that   you   should   rrari^ 
Lucien.     Do  you  think  I  would  take  a  step  of  which 
they  did  not  approve  ?  " 

"  A  long  while  ago  is  not  to-day,"  sobbed  Fehse. 
"  I  want  to  talk  to  my  mother." 

Bigourdin  walked  across  the  salon,  with  his  back  to 
her,  and  snapped  his  fingers  in  peculiar  agitation,  and 
muttered  below  his  breath :  "  Nom  de  Dieu  de  nom 
de  Dieu  de  nom  de  Dieu!"  Kindest-hearted  of 
mortals  though  he  was,  he  resented  the  bottom  being 
knocked  out  of  his  scheme  of  social  existence.  For 
years  he  had  looked  forward  to  this  aUiance  with 
the  Viriots.  Personally  he  had  nothing  to  gain  :  on 
the  contrary,  he  stood  to  lose  the  services  of  Fehse 
and  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  But  he  had  set  his 
heart  on  it,  and  so  had  the  Viriots.  To  go  to  them 
and  say,  "  My  niece  refuses  to  marry  your  son,"  would 
be  a  slash  of  the  whip  across  their  faces.  His  failure 
to  bring  up  a  young  girl  in  the  proper  sentiments 
would  be  a  disgrace  to  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  community. 
He  felt  hurt,  too,  because  he  no  longer  sufficed  her  ;  she 
wanted  her  mother  ;  and  it  was  out  of  the  question 
that  she  should  go  to  her  mother.  No  wonder  he 
swore  to  himself  softly. 

"  But,  mon  Dieu,"  said  he,  turning  round,  "  what 
have  you  against  Lucien  ?  " 

Whereupon  they  went  over  all  the  argument  again. 
She  did  not  love  Lucien.  She  didn't  want  to  marry 
Lucien.  She  would  not  marry  a  man  she  did  not 
love. 

"  Then  you  will  die  an  old  maid,"  said  Bigourdin. 
*'  An  old  maid,  figure-toi  !     It  would  be  terrible  !  " 

Fehse  sniffed  at  such  terrors.  Bigourdin,  in  despera- 
tion, asked  what  he  was  to  tell  the  Viriots.  "  The 
truth,"  said  Felise.     But  what  was  the  truth  ? 


1^0  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

QJ[Q^^  f  J  me,  my  little  Felise,"  said  he  gently,  "  there 
.y^riil  r.  chance,  no  one  else  ?  " 

a^r  nen  Felise  waxed  indignant  and  routed  the  unhappy 
.ian.  She  gave  him  to  understand  that  she  was  a 
jeune  fille  Men  elevee,  and  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
behaving  like  a  kitchenmaid.  It  was  cruel  and 
insulting  to  accuse  her  of  clandestine  love  affairs.  And 
Bigourdin,  bound  by  his  honourable  convictions,  knew 
that  she  was  justified  in  her  resentment.  Again  he 
plucked  at  his  bristles,  scared  by  the  spectacle  of 
outraged  maidenhood.  The  tender-eyed  dove  had 
become  a  flashing  httle  eagle.  A  wiher  man  than  he 
might  have  suspected  the  over-protesting  damsel. 
Womanlike,  she  pressed  her  advantage. 

"  Mon  oncle,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  but  you 
are  a  man  and  you  don't  understand." 

"  That  is  absolutely  true,"  said  he. 

"  So  you  see  there  is  only  one  person  I  can  explain 
it  to,  and  that  is  my  mother." 

Thus  she  completed  the  vicious  little  circle.  And 
again  the  helpless  Bigourdin  walked  across  the  salon, 
and  turned  his  back  on  her,  and  muttered  the  incanta- 
tions which  bring  rehef  to  distracted  men.  But  this 
time  she  went  up  to  him,  and  put  an  arm  round  his 
great  body,  and  laid  her  face  against  his  sleeve. 

"  Tu  sais,  je  suis  Men  malheureuse." 

It  was  a  knife  stuck  in  the  honest  fellow's  heart. 
He  caught  her  to  him,  and  in  his  turn  protested 
vehemently.  He  would  not  allow  her  to  be  unhappy. 
He  would  cut  off  his  head  rather  than  allow  her  to 
be  unhappy.  He  would  do  anything — his  French 
caution  forbade  an  offer  to  send  the  Viriots  packing — 
anything  in  reason  to  bring  the  colour  back  to  her 
white  cheeks. 

Suddenly  he  had  an  inspiration  which  glowed  all 
over  his  broad  face  and  caused  him  to  hold  her  out  at 
arm's  length  and  laugh  joyously. 

"  You  can't  see  your  mother — but  there  is  your 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

good  Aunt  Clothilde.  She  will  be  a  second  motl 
you.  A  woman  so  pious  and  so  sympathetic,  i 
will  be  able  to  tell  her  all  your  troubles.  She  ha. 
married  a  regiment  of  daughters.  What  she  doesn't 
know  of  young  girls  isn't  worth  knowing.  You  are 
tired,  you  are  ill.  You  need  a  change,  a  little  holiday. 
Go  and  spend  a  month  with  her,  and  when  you  come 
back  we'll  see  what  can  be  done  with  regard  to  Lucien. 
I'll  write  to  her  now." 

And  without  waiting  to  hear  her  demure  "  Bien, 
mon  oncle,"  he  escaped  to  the  bureau  where  he  should 
find  the  writing  materials  which  did  not  profane  the 
sacred  primness  of  the  salon,  and  plunged  into  corre- 
spondence. Felise,  left  alone,  pondered  for  a  moment 
or  two,  with  faint  wrinkhng  of  her  smooth  forehead, 
and  then,  sketching  a  gesture  of  fatahstic  resignation, 
went  off  to  the  kitchen,  where  a  great  special  boihng 
of  goose  livers  was  in  progress.  On  the  way  she  met 
Martin  carrying  a  load  of  porcelain  pots.  But  she 
passed  him  by  coldly ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  she 
scarcely  threw  at  him  a  couple  of  words. 

Meanwhile  Bigourdin  beamed  over  the  letter  to  his 
elder  sister  Clothilde,  a  comfortable  and  almost  opulent 
widow  who  Hved  at  Chartres.  They  had  not  met  for 
a  dozen  years,  it  is  true,  and  she  had  only  once  seen 
Felise  ;  but  the  sense  of  the  family  is  very  strong  in 
France,  especially  where  marriage  alliances  are  con- 
cerned, and  he  had  no  doubt  that  she  would  telegraph, 
as  requested,  and  authorize  him  to  entrust  Felise  to 
her  keeping.  Verily  it  had  been  an  inspiration.  It 
was  a  solution  of  difficulties.  The  Viriots  had  given 
signs  of  an  almost  indecent  hurry,  which  naturally  had 
scared  Felise.  A  month  was  a  long  time.  Clothilde 
was  a  woman  of  experience,  tact,  and  good  sense.  She 
would  know  how  to  bring  Felise  to  a  reasonable  state 
of  mind.  If  she  did  not  succeed — well — he  was  not 
the  man  to  force  his  Uttle  Felise  into  a  distasteful 
marriage.     In  any  case  he  had  a  month's  respite. 


140  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

allow  f  ^ving  stated  his  case  at  length,  he  went  out  into 
will  f^  town  to  post  such  an  important  letter  at  the  central 
gjjjr'ostes  et  Tele'graphes,  and  on  the  way  back  looked  in 
at  the  shop  of  the  very  respectable  Madame  Chauvet, 
who,  with  her  two  elderly  daughters,  sold  crucifixes 
and  rosaries  and  books  of  devotion  and  candles  and 
all  that  would  supply  the  devout  needs  of  the  religious 
population.  And  after  a  prolonged  and  courtly  con- 
versation, he  induced  Madame  Chauvet,  in  considera- 
tion of  their  old  friendship,  her  expenses,  and  an 
honorarium  of  twenty  francs,  to  undertake  the  safe 
convoy  of  Fehse  from  Brantome  to  the  house  of 
Madame  Robineau,  her  Aunt  Clothilde,  at  Chartres. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Madame  Robineau  was  tall,  angular,  thin-lipped,  and 
devout,  and  so  far  as  she  indulged  in  social  intercourse 
loved  to  mingle  with  other  angular,  thin-lipped,  and 
devout  ladies  who  belonged  to  the  same  lay-sisterhood. 
She  dressed  in  unreHeved  black,  and  always  wore  on 
her  bosom  a  bronze  cross  of  threatening  magnitude. 
She  prayed  in  the  cathedral  at  inconvenient  hours,  and 
fasted  as  rigorously  as  her  confessor,  Monsieur  I'Abb^ 
Duloup,  himself.  Monsieur  I'Abbe  regarded  her  as 
one  of  the  most  pious  women  in  Chartres.  No  doubt 
she  was. 

But  Fehse,  although  a  good  Catholic  in  her  very 
simple  way,  and  anxious  to  win  favour  by  observance 
of  the  rules  of  the  solitary  household,  was  wicked 
enough  to  wish  that  her  aunt  were  not  quite  so  pious. 
In  religious  matters  a  wide  latitudinarianism  prevailed 
at  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  There,  with  a  serene  con- 
science, one  could  eat  meat  on  Fridays  and  crack  a 
mild  joke  at  the  expense  of  the  good  Saint  Peter. 
But  neither  forbidden  flesh  nor  jocularity  on  any 
subject,  let  alone  on  a  saint's  minor  foibles,  mitigated 
the  austerities  of  the  perky,  wind-swept  little  house  at 
Chartres.  No  wonder,  thought  FeHse.  Aunt  Clothilde 
had  married  off  a  regiment  of  daughters — four  to  be 
exact ;  it  had  been  an  easy  matter  ;  she  herself  would 
have  married  any  caricature  of  a  man  rather  than  spend 
her  life  in  an  atmosphere  so  rarefied  and  so  depressing. 
She  pitied  her  cousins,  although,  according  to  her 
Aunt  Clothilde's  pragmatical  account,  they  were  all 
doing  splendidly  and  had  innumerable  babies.     By  the 

145  K 


146  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

end  of  the  first  week  of  her  visit  she  consolidated  an 
intense  disUke  to  Chartres  and  everything  in  it, 
especially  the  cathedral.  Now  it  may  be  thought  that 
any  one  who  can  shake  the  fist  of  disapprobation  at  the 
Cathedral  of  Chartres  is  beyond  the  pale  of  human 
sympathy.  But  when  you  are  dragged  relentlessly 
thither  in  the  icy  dark  of  every  winter  morning,  and 
the  bitter  gloom  of  every  winter  evening,  to  say 
nothing  of  sporadic  attendances  during  the  daytime, 
you  may  be  pardoned  if  your  aesthetic  perceptions  are 
obscured  by  the  sense  of  outrage  inflicted  on  your 
personal  comfort.  To  many  generations  of  men  the 
cathedral  has  been  a  symbol  of  glories,  revelations,  and 
eternities.  In  such  slanting  shafts  of  light,  mystically 
hued,  the  Grail  might  have  been  made  manifest,  the 
Sacred  Dove  might  have  gHded  down  to  the  Head  of 
the  Holy  One.  .  .  .  But  what  need  to  tell  of  its 
spiritual  wonders  and  of  its  m^^stery,  the  heart  of 
which  it  is  given  to  every  suffering  man  to  pluck  out 
according  to  his  own  soul's  needs  ?  It  was  a  little 
tragedy  that  to  poor  Felise  the  cathedral  symbolized 
nothing  but  an  overwhelming  tyranny.  She  hated 
every  stone  of  it,  as  much  as  she  hated  every  shiny 
plank  and  every  polished  chair  in  her  aunt's  frigid 
salon.  Even  the  streets  of  Chartres  repelled  her  by 
their  bleakness.  They  lacked  the  smiling  homeliness 
of  Brantome ;  and  the  whole  place  was  flatter  than 
the  Sahara.  She  sighed  for  the  rocks  and  hills  of 
Perigord. 

She  also  ate  the  unaccustomed  bread  of  idleness. 
Had  her  aunt  permitted,  she  would  delightedly  have 
helped  with  the  housework.  But  Madame  Robineau, 
widow  of  a  dealer  in  grain  who,  before  his  death,  had 
retired  on  a  comfortable  fortune,  lived,  according  to 
her  Ughts,  at  her  ease,  her  wants  being  scrupulously 
administered  to  by  a  cook  and  a  maid.  There  was  no 
place  in  the  domestic  machine  for  Felise.  Her  aunt 
passed  long  chilly  hours  over  ecclesiastical  embroidery. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  147 

sitting  bolt  upright  in  her  chair  with  a  chaufferette 
beneath  her  feet.  FeUse,  unaccustomed  needlewoman, 
passed  longer  and  chillier  hours  (having  no  chaufferette) 
either  playing  with  a  grey,  ascetic  cat  or  reading  aloud 
La  Croix,  the  only  newspaper  allowed  to  cross  the 
threshold  of  the  house.  Now  and  again  Madame 
Robineau  would  drop  her  thin  hands  into  her  lap  and 
regard  her  disapprovingly.  One  day  she  said,  inter- 
rupting the  reading  : 

"  My  poor  child,  how  your  education  has  been 
neglected.  You  scarcely  know  how  to  hold  a  needle, 
you  can't  read  aloud  without  making  faults,  and  you 
are  ignorant  of  the  elements  of  our  holy  rehgion." 

"  My  aunt,"  Felise  replied,  "  I  know  how  to  manage 
an  hotel." 

"  That  will  be  of  little  use  to  your  husband." 

Felise  winced  at  the  unhappy  word. 

"  I  am  never  going  to  marry,  ma  tanie,"  she  said. 

"  You  surely  do  not  expect  to  be  admitted  into  a 
convent  ?  " 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  cried  FeHse. 

"  Heaven  would  forbid,"  said  Madame  Robineau 
severely,  "  seeing  that  you  have  not  the  vocation. 
But  the  jeune  fille  Men  eleve'e  " — in  the  mouth  of  her 
Aunt  Clothilde  the  familiar  phrase  assumed  a  detestable 
significance,  implying,  to  Felise's  mind,  a  pallid  young 
creature  from  whom  all  blood  and  laughter  had  been 
driven  by  undesirable  virtues — "  the  jeune  fille  Men 
e'levee  has  only  two  careers  offered  to  her — the  con- 
vent or  marriage.  For  you,  my  dear  child,  it  is 
marriage." 

"  Well,"  said  FeUse,  with  a  smile,  preparing  to  resume 
the  article  in  the  newspaper  over  which  she  had 
stumbled,  "  perhaps  the  beautiful  prince  will  come 
along  one  of  these  days." 

But  Madame  Robineau  rebuked  her  for  vain  imagin- 
ings. 

"It  is  true  what  I  said,  that  your  education  has 


148  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

been  neglected.  A  young  girl's  duty  is  not  to  look  for 
princes,  but  to  accept  the  husband  chosen  by  the 
wisdom  of  her  family." 

"  Ma  tante,"  said  Felise  demurely,  after  a  pause 
during  which  her  aunt  took  up  her  work  again,  "  if 
you  would  teach  me  how  to  embroider,  perhaps  I 
might  learn  to  be  useful  in  my  future  home." 

From  this  and  many  other  conversations  Felise 
began  to  be  aware  of  the  subtle  strategy  of  Bigourdin. 
On  the  plea  of  providing  her  with  pro-maternal  con- 
solation, he  had  delivered  her  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  This  became  abundantly  clear  as  the  days 
went  on.  Aunt  Clothilde,  incited  thereto  by  her 
uncle,  was  opening  a  deadly  campaign  in  favour  of 
Lucien  Viriot.  Now  the  cathedral,  though  paralysing, 
could  be  borne  for  a  season,  and  so  could  the  blight 
that  pervaded  the  house ;  but  the  campaign  was 
intolerable.  If  she  could  have  resented  the  action  of 
one  so  beloved  as  Bigourdin,  she  would  have  resented 
his  sending  her  to  her  Aunt  Clothilde.  Under  the 
chaperonage  of  the  respectable  Madame  Chauvet  she 
had  fallen  into  a  pretty  trap.  She  had  found  none  of 
the  promised  sympathy.  Aunt  Clothilde,  although 
receiving  her  with  the  affectionate  hospitality  due  to  a 
sister's  child,  had  from  the  first  interview  frozen  the 
genial  current  of  her  little  soul.  The  great  bronze 
cross  in  itself  repelled  her.  If  it  had  been  a  nice, 
gentle  little  cross,  rising  and  faUing  on  a  motherly 
bosom,  it  would  have  worked  its  all-human  adorable 
influence.  But  this  was  a  harsh,  aggressive,  come-and- 
be-crucified  sort  of  cross,  with  no  suggestion  of  pity  or 
understanding.  The  saUow,  austere  face  above  it 
might  have  easily  been  twisted  into  such  a  cross.  It 
conveyed  no  invitation  to  the  sufferer  to  pour  out  her 
troubles.  Uncle  Bigourdin  was  wrong  again.  Rather 
would  FeUse  have  poured  out  her  troubles  into  the 
portentous  ear  of  the  Suisse  at  the  cathedral. 

Her   aunt   and   herself   met   nowhere   on   common 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  149 

ground.  They  were  for  ever  at  variance.  Madame 
Robineau  spoke  disparagingly  of  the  English,  because 
they  were  Protestants  and  therefore  heretics. 

"  But  I  am  Enghsh,  and  I  am  not  a  heretic,"  cried 
Felise. 

"  You  are  not  English,"  rephed  her  aunt,  "  because 
you  have  a  French  mother  and  have  been  brought  up 
in  France.  And  as  for  not  being  a  heretic,  I  am  not 
so  sure.  Monsieur  I'Abbe  Duloup  thinks  you  must 
have  been  brought  up  among  Freemasons." 

"Ah,  non,  par  exemple !  "  exclaimed  FeUse  indig- 
nantly. For  in  the  eyes  of  the  Church  French  Free- 
masons are  dreadful  folk,  capable  of  anything  sacri- 
legious, from  denying  the  miracle  of  Saint  Januarius 
to  slitting  the  Pope's  weasand.  So — "  Ah,  non,  par 
exemple  !  "  cried  FeHse. 

Freemasons,  indeed !  Her  Uncle  Gaspard,  it  is 
true,  did  not  attend  church  regularly — but  yes,  he  did 
attend  regularly — he  went  once  a  year,  every  Easter 
Sunday,  and  he  was  the  best  of  friends  with  Monsieur 
ie  Cure  of  their  paroisse.  And  as  for  herself.  Monsieur 
le  Cure,  who  looked  Kke  a  venerable  saint  in  the  holy 
pictures,  had  always  a  smile  and  a  ma  chere  enfant  for 
her  whenever  they  met.  She  was  on  excellent  terms 
with  Monsieur  le  Cure ;  he  would  no  more  have 
dreamed  of  associating  her  with  Freemasons  than  of 
accusing  her  of  being  in  league  with  devils. 

He  was  a  good,  common-sensical  old  cure,  like 
thousands  of  the  secular  clergy  in  France,  and  knew 
how  to  leave  weU  alone.  Questioned  by  the  ecclesias- 
tically environed  Abbe  Duloup  as  to  the  spiritual  state 
of  FeUse,  he  would  indubitably  have  answered  with 
serene  conviction  :  "  If  a  soul  so  pure  and  so  candid, 
which  I  have  watched  from  childhood,  is  not  acceptable 
to  the  bon  Dieu,  then  I  know  no  more  about  the  bon 
Dieu  than  I  know  about  the  Emperor  of  Patagonia." 

But  FeUse,  disliking  the  Abbe  Duloup  and  many  of 
his  works,  felt  a  delicacy  in  dragging  her  own  cure  into 


150  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

the  argument,  and  contented  herself  with  protesting 
against  the  charge  of  heresy.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
proclaimed,  her  Uncle  Gaspard  was  not  a  Freemason. 
He  held  in  abhorrence  all  secret  political  societies  as 
being  subversive  of  the  State.  No  one  should  attack 
her  Uncle  Gaspard,  although  he  had  betrayed  her  so 
shabbily. 

In  vain  she  sought  some  link  with  her  aunt.  Even 
Mimi,  the  lean  old  cat,  did  not  form  a  bond  of  union. 
As  a  vagrant  kitten  it  had  been  welcomed  years  ago 
by  the  late  good-natured  Robineau,  and  the  widow 
tolerated  its  continued  presence  with  Christian  resigna- 
tion, Felise  took  the  unloved  beast  to  her  heart. 
From  Aunt  Clothilde's  caustic  remarks  she  gathered 
that  her  four  cousins,  of  whose  exemplary  acceptance 
of  husbands  she  had  heard  so  much,  had  eyed  Mimi 
with  the  coldness  of  their  mother.  She  began  to 
thank  Providence  that  she  did  not  resemble  her 
cousins,  which  was  reprehensible  ;  and  now  and  then 
manifested  a  lack  of  interest  in  their  impeccable 
doings,  which  was  more  reprehensible  still,  and  thus 
stirred  up  against  her  the  maternal  instincts  of  Madame 
Robineau. 

Relations  grew  strained.  Aunt  Clothilde  spoke  to 
her  mth  sharp  impatience.  From  her  recalcitrance  in 
the  matter  of  Lucien  she  deduced  every  fault  con- 
ceivable. For  the  first  time  in  her  life  FeHse  dwelt  in 
an  atmosphere  where  love  was  not.  She  longed  for 
home.  She  longed  especially  for  her  father  and  his 
wise  tenderness.  Because  she  longed  so  greatly  she 
could  not  write  to  him  as  a  father  should  be  written 
to  ;  and  the  many-paged  letters  into  which,  at  night, 
she  put  all  her  aching  httle  heart,  in  the  morning  she 
blushed  at  the  thought  of  sending.  In  spite  of  his 
lapse  from  grace,  she  could  not  be  so  disloyal  to  the 
beloved  Uncle  Gaspard.  Nor  could  she  distress  her 
suffering  angel  mother  by  her  incoherent  account  of 
things.    If  only  she  could  see  her  ! 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  151 

At  last,  one  dreary  afternoon,  Madame  Robineau 
opened  an  attack  in  force. 

"  Put  down  that  cat.     I  have  to  talk  to  you." 

Felise  obeyed,  and  Aunt  Clothilde  talked.  The 
more  she  talked,  the  more  stubborn  front  did  Felise 
oppose.  Madame  Robineau  lost  her  temper.  Her 
thin  lips  twitched. 

"  I  order  you,"  she  said,  "  to  marry  Lucien  Viriot." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  anything  to  vex  you,  ma  tante," 
replied  Fehse  valiantly ;  "  but  you  have  not  the  power." 

"  And  I  suppose  your  uncle  has  not  the  power  to 
command  you  ?  " 

"  In  matters  hke  that,  no,  ma  tante,"  said  Felise. 

Aunt  Clothilde  rose  from  her  straight-backed  chair, 
and  shook  a  long,  threatening  finger.  The  long  nail 
at  the  end  was  also  long  and  not  very  clean.  Felise 
often  wondered  whether  her  aunt  abhorred  a  nail-brush 
by  way  of  mortification.  "  When  one  considers  all 
the  benefits  my  brother  has  heaped  on  your  head," 
said  Aunt  Clothilde  in  a  rasping  voice,  "  you  are  nothing 
else  than  a  httle  monster  of  ingratitude  !  " 

FeHse  flared  up.     She  did  not  lack  spirit. 

"  It  is  false,"  she  cried.  "  I  adore  my  Uncle  Gaspard. 
I  would  give  him  my  fife.  I  am  not  ungrateful.  It  is 
worse  than  false." 

"  It  is  true,"  retorted  Madame  Robineau.  "  Other- 
mse  you  would  not  refuse  him  the  desire  of  his  heart. 
Without  him  you  would  have  not  a  rag  to  your  back, 
or  a  shoe  to  your  foot,  and  no  more  religion  than  a 
heathen.  It  is  to  him  you  owe  everything — everj^hing. 
Without  him  you  would  be  in  the  gutter  where  he 
fished  you  from." 

She  ended  on  a  shrill  note.  Felise,  very  pale,  faced 
her  passionately,  with  a  new  Hght  in  her  mild  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  The  gutter  ?  My  father ?  " 

"  Bah  !  Your  father  !  Your  vagabond,  ne'er-do- 
weel  scamp  of  a  father  !  He's  a  scandal  to  the  family, 
your  father  !    He  should  never  have  been  born." 


152  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

The  girl  reeled.  It  was  a  foul  bludgeon  blow, 
Madame  Robineau,  with  quick  realization  of  folly, 
checked  further  utterance,  and  allowed  Felise,  white, 
quivering,  and  vanquished,  but  carrying  her  Uttle  head 
fiercely  in  the  air,  to  retire  from  the  scene  with  all  the 
honours  of  war. 

Madame  Robineau  was  sorry.  She  had  lost  both 
temper  and  dignity.  Her  next  confession  would  be  an 
unpleasant  matter.  Possibly,  however,  the  Abbd 
Duloup  would  understand  and  guess  the  provocation. 
She  shrugged  her  lean  shoulders.  It  was  good  some- 
times for  hoity-toity  damsels  to  learn  huniihty.  So 
she  sat  down  again,  pursing  her  Hps,  and  continued  her 
embroidered  stole  until  it  was  the  hour  of  vespers. 
Contrary  to  custom,  she  did  not  summon  Felise  to 
accompany  her  to  the  cathedral.  An  hour  or  two  of 
soUtude,  she  thought,  not  unkindly,  would  bring  her 
to  a  more  reasonable  frame  of  mind.  She  went  out 
alone. 

When  she  returned  she  found  that  Felise  had  left 
the  house. 

It  was  a  very  scared  young  person  that  presented 
herself  at  the  guichet  at  the  railway  station  and  asked 
for  a  second-class  ticket  to  Paris.  She  had  never 
travelled  alone  in  her  hfe  before.  Even  on  her  rare 
visits  to  the  metropolis  of  Perigueux,  in  whose  vast 
emporium  of  fashion  she  clothed  herself,  she  was 
attended  by  Euphemie  or  the  chambermaid.  She  felt 
lost,  a  tiny,  helpless  creature,  in  the  great,  high  station 
in  which  an  engine  letting  off  steam  produced  a 
bewildering  uproar.  How  much  she  paid  for  her 
ticket,  thrifty  and  practised  housekeeper  that  she  was, 
she  did  not  know.  She  clutched  the  change  from  a 
hundred-franc  note  which,  a  present  from  her  uncle 
before  leaving  Brantome,  she  had  preserved  intact, 
and  scuttled  Uke  a  Httle  brown  rabbit  to  the  door  of 
the  salle  d'attenU. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  153 

"  Le  train  de  Paris  ?  A  quatre  heures  cinquante," 
said  the  official  at  the  door,  as  though  this  palpitating 
adventure  were  the  commonplace  of  every  minute. 

"  And  that  will  be  ?  "  she  gasped. 

He  cocked  an  eye  at  the  clock.     "  In  half  an  hour." 

A  train  was  on  the  point  of  starting.  There  was  a 
scuttle  for  seats.  She  felt  sure  it  was  the  Paris  train. 
From  it  emanated  the  magic  influence  of  the  great 
city  whither  she  was  bound.  A  questioned  porter 
informed  her  it  was  going  in  the  opposite  direction. 
The  Paris  express  left  at  four-fifty.  The  train  steamed 
out.  It  seemed  to  Felise  as  though  she  had  lost  a 
friend.  She  looked  round  helplessly,  and  seeing  a  fat 
peasant  woman  sitting  on  a  bench,  surrounded  by 
bundles  and  children,  she  ran  to  her  side  for  protection. 
It  is  the  unknown  that  frightens.  In  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes  she  commanded  men  with  the  serenity  of  a 
Queen  Ehzabeth,  and  as  for  commercial  travellers  and 
other  male  visitors,  she  took  no  more  account  of  them 
than  of  the  geese  that  she  plucked.  And  the  terrifying 
Aunt  Clothilde  had  terrified  in  vain.  But  here,  in  this 
cold,  glass-roofed,  steel-strutted,  screeching,  ghostly 
inferno  of  a  place,  with  men  prowling  about  like 
roaring  lions  seeking  probably  whom  they  might 
devour,  conditions  were  terrifyingly  unfamiliar. 

Yet  she  did  not  care.  Under  the  blasphemous  rooi 
of  her  Aunt  Clothilde  she  could  not  have  remamed. 
For,  in  verity,  blasphemy  had  been  spoken.  Her 
father  was  loved  and  honoured  by  all  the  world  ;  by 
her  mother,  by  Uncle  Gaspard,  by  Corinna,  by  Martin. 
And  she  herself — did  she  not  know  her  father  ?  Was 
there  ever  a  man  like  him  ?  The  insulting  words  rang 
through  her  brain.  She  would  have  confronted  terrors 
a  millionfold  more  grisly  than  these  in  order  to  escape 
from  the  blasphemer,  whom  she  could  never  forgive — 
no,  not  for  all  the  cures  and  abbes  in  Christendom.  An 
intense  httle  soul  was  that  of  Felise  Fortinbras.  It 
swept  her  irresistibly  out  of  the  unhallowed  villa,  with 


154  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

a  handbag  containing  a  night-gown,  a  toothbrush,  and 
a  faded  Httle  photograph  of  her  father  and  mother 
standing  side  by  side  in  wedding  garb,  on  the  way  to 
the  dread,  fascinating  whirlpool  of  Paris,  where  dwelt 
the  worshipped  gods  of  her  idolatry.  And,  as  she  sat 
in  the  comforting  lee  of  the  fat  and  unafraid  peasant 
woman  and  her  bundles  and  her  children,  she  took 
herself  to  task  for  cowardice. 

The  journey,  under  two  hours,  was  but  a  trifle.  Had 
it  been  to  Brantome,  an  all-night  affair,  she  might 
have  had  reason  for  quailing.  But  to  Paris  it  was 
practically  but  a  step.  .  .  .  The  Abbe  Duloup  spoke 
of  going  to  Paris  as  her  uncle  spoke  of  going  to  Peri- 
gueux.  Yet  her  heart  thudded  violently  during  the 
interminable  half-hour.  And  there  was  the  grim 
possibility  of  the  appearance  of  a  pursuing  Aunt 
Clothilde.  She  kept  a  fearful  eye  upon  the  doorway 
of  the  salle  d'attente. 

At  last  the  train  rushed  in,  and  there  was  clangour 
of  luggage  trucks  and  clamour  of  raucous  voices 
announcing  the  train  for  Paris  ;  and  a  flow  of  waiting 
people,  among  whom  was  her  neighbour  with  her 
varied  impedimenta,  swept  across  the  lines  and  scaled 
the  heights  of  the  carriages.  By  luck,  in  front  of 
F61ise  loomed  a  compartment  showing  second  class  on 
the  door  panel  and  "  Dames  seules  "  on  the  window. 
She  clambered  in  and  sank  into  a  seat.  Who  her 
lonely  lady  fellow-travellers  were  she  could  not  after- 
wards remember  ;  for  she  kept  her  eyes  closed,  absorbed 
in  the  adventure  that  still  lay  before  her.  Yet  it  was 
comforting  to  feel  that  as  long  as  the  train  went  on 
she  was  safe  in  this  feminine  sanctuary,  free  from 
depredations  of  marauding  males. 

Paris.  One  of  the  ladies,  seeing  that  she  was  about 
to  remain  in  the  carriage,  jerked  the  information  over 
a  descending  shoulder.  Felise  followed,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  more  confused  than  ever  in  the  blue 
glare  and  ant-hill  hurry  of  the  Gare  Montparnasse.     A 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  155 

whole  town  seemed  to  have  emerged  from  the  train 
and  to  stream  like  a  rout  of  refugees  flying  from 
disaster,  men,  women,  and  children  laden  with  luggage, 
towards  the  barrier.  Carried  along,  she  arrived  there 
at  length,  gave  up  her  ticket,  and,  issuing  from  the 
station,  found  herself  in  a  narrow  street,  at  the  end  of 
which,  still  following  the  throng,  she  came  to  a  thunder- 
ing thoroughfare.  Never,  in  all  her  imaginings  of 
Paris,  had  she  pictured  such  a  soul-stunning  phantas- 
magoria of  flashing  hght  and  flashing  movement. 
There  were  millions  of  faces  passing  her  by  on  the 
pavement,  in  the  illuminated  interiors  of  omnibuses,  in 
the  dim  recesses  of  taxi-autos,  on  wagons,  on  carts, 
on  bicycles  ;  milUons  in  gaily  Ut  cafes ;  before  her 
dazzled  eyes  millions  seemed  to  be  reflected  even 
in  the  quivering,  lucent  air.  She  stood  at  the  corner 
of  the  Place  de  Rennes  and  the  Boulevard  Mont- 
parnasse  paralysed  with  fear,  clutching  her  handbag 
tight  to  her  side.  In  that  perilous  street  thousands  of 
thieves  must  jostle  her.  She  could  not  move  a  step, 
overwhelmed  by  the  immensity  of  Paris.  A  good- 
natured  sergent  de  ville,  possibly  the  father  of  pretty 
daughters,  noticed  her  agonized  distress.  It  was  not 
his  business  to  perform  unsolicited  deeds  of  knight- 
errantry  ;  but  having  nothing  else  to  do  for  the 
moment,  he  caught  her  eye  and  beamed  paternal 
encouragement.  Now  a  sergent  de  ville  is  a  sergent 
de  ville  (recognizable  by  his  uniform)  all  France  over. 
Felise  held  Pere  Chavrol,  who  exercised  that  func- 
tion at  Brantome,  in  high  esteem.  This  poUceman 
had  a  fat,  dark,  grinning,  scrubbily  moustached  face 
which  resembled  that  of  Pere  Chavrol.  She  took  her 
courage  and  her  handbag  in  both  hands. 

"  IMonsieur,"  she  said,  "  can  you  direct  me  to  the 
Rue  Maugrabine  ?  " 

He  couldn't.     He   did  not  know  that   street.     In 
what  quartier  was  it  ?     Fehse  was  ignorant. 

"  C'est  Id  ou  demeure  mon  pere,"  she  added.     "  C'esi 


156  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Monsieur  Fortinbras.  Tout  le  monde  le  connait  d 
Paris." 

But  alas  !  the  sergent  de  ville  had  never  heard  of 
the  illustrious  Fortinbras  :  which  was  strange,  seeing  that 
all  Brantome  knew  him,  although  he  did  not  live  there. 

"  What  then  shall  I  do,  monsieur,"  asked  FeHse, 
"  to  get  to  my  father  ?  " 

The  sergent  de  ville  pushed  his  kepi  to  the  back  of 
his  head  and  cogitated.  Then,  with  uplifted  hand,  he 
halted  a  crawUng  fiacre.  Rue  de  Maugrabine  ?  Of 
course  the  glazed-hatted,  muffled-up  driver  knew  it. 
Somewhere  between  the  Rue  de  la  Roquette  and  the 
Avenue  de  la  Republique.  The  sergent  de  ville  smiled 
vaingloriously.  It  was  only  ces  vieux  collignons,  old 
drivers  of  fiacres,  that  knew  their  Paris,  he  explained. 
The  chauffeur  of  a  taxi-auto  would  have  been  ignorant 
of  the  whereabouts  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  He 
advised  her  to  engage  the  omniscient  cabman.  The 
Rue  Maugrabine  was  infinitely  distant,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  FeHse  suggested  that  a  cab  would 
cost  enormously  In  Brantome  legends  were  stiU 
current  of  scandalous  exactions  levied  by  Paris  cabmen 
on  provincials.  The  driver  twisted  his  head  affably, 
and  hoarsely  murmured  that  it  would  not  cost  a 
fortune.  Perhaps  two  francs,  two  francs  fifty,  with  a 
little  pourboire.  He  did  not  know.  The  amount 
would  be  registered.  The  sergent  de  viUe  pointed  out 
the  taximeter. 

"  Be  not  afraid,  mademoiselle.  Enter.  What 
number  ?  " 

"  Number  29." 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  stuffy  little  brougham. 
Felise  held  out  her  hand  as  she  would  have  held  it  out 
to  Pere  Chavrol,  and  thanked  him  as  though  he  had 
preserved  her  from  legions  of  dragons.  The  last  she 
saw  of  him  as  she  drove  off  was  in  the  act  of  majestically 
sweeping  back  a  group  of  idlers  who  had  halted  to 
witness  the  touching  farewell. 


-THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  157 

The  old  cab  jolted  and  swerved  through  blazing 
vistas  of  unimagined  thoroughfares ;  over  bridges 
spanning  mysterious  stretches  of  dark  waters  and 
connecting  looming  masses  of  gigantic  buildings  ;  and 
through  more  streets  garish  with  light  and  apparent 
revelry.  Realization  of  its  glory  came  with  a  Httle 
sob  of  joy.  She  was  in  Paris,  the  Wonderland  of 
Paris  transcending  all  her  dreams.  Brantome  and 
Chartres  seemed  afar  off.  She  had  the  sensation  of  a 
butterfly  escaping  from  the  chrysalis.  She  had  been  a 
butterfly  for  ages.  What  unremembered  kind  of  state 
had  been  her  grub  condition  ?  Thrills  of  excitement 
swept  her  Uttle  body.  She  was  throbbingly  happy. 
And  at  the  end  of  the  magic  journey  she  would  meet 
her  father,  marvel  among  men,  and  her  mother,  the 
strange,  sweet,  mystical  being,  the  enchanted  princess 
of  her  childish  visions,  the  warm,  spiritual,  all-under- 
standing, all-embracing  woman  of  her  maiden  longings. 

The  streets  grew  narrower,  less  important.  They 
were  passing  through  the  poor  neighbourhood  east  of 
the  Place  de  la  Bastille.  Fairyland  suffered  a  sinister 
touch.  Slight  fears  again  assailed  her.  Some  of  the 
streets  appeared  dark  and  suspect.  Evil-looking  folk 
haunted  the  pavements.  She  wondered,  with  a  catch 
of  the  breath,  whither  she  was  being  driven.  -At  last 
the  cab  swung  into  a  street,  darker,  more  suspect, 
more  ill-odoured  than  any,  and  stopped  before  a  large 
open  doorway.  She  peered  through  the  window. 
Above  the  door  she  could  just  discern  the  white  figures 
"  29  "  on  the  blue  plaque.  Her  rosy  dreams  melted 
into  night,  her  heart  sank.     She  alighted. 

"  This  is  really  29  Rue  Maugrabine  ?  " 

"  Bien  siir,  mademoiselle." 

She  had  forgotten  to  look  at  the  taximeter,  but 
taking  three  francs  from  her  purse,  she  asked  the 
driver  if  that  was  enough.  He  thanked  her  with 
raised  hat  for  munificence,  and,  whipping  up  his  old 
horse,  drove  off. 


158  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Felise  entered  a  smelly  little  paved  courtyard  and 
gazed  about  her  helplessly.  She  had  imagined  such 
another  decent  httle  house  as  her  aunt's,  at  which  a 
ring  at  the  front  door  would  ensure  immediate  admit- 
tance. In  this  extraordinary  dank  well  she  felt  more 
lost  than  ever.  Paris  was  a  bewildering  mystery.  A 
child  emerged  from  some  dark  cavern. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Monsieur  Fortinbras  hves  ?  " 

The  child  advised  her  to  ask  the  concierge,  and 
pointed  to  the  iron  bell-pull.  Felise  rang.  The 
frowsy  concierge  gave  the  directions. 

"  All  quairieme  au  coin,  a  gauche." 

Felise  entered  the  corner  cavern  and  came  on  an 
evil-smelling  stone  staircase,  lit  here  and  there  by 
naked  gas-jets  which  blackened  the  walls  at  intervals. 
The  cold  gathered  round  her  heart.  On  the  second 
landing  some  noisy,  ill-dressed  men  clattered  past  her 
and  caused  her  to  shrink  back  with  fear.  She  mounted 
the  interminable  stairs.  Here  and  there  an  open  door 
revealed  a  squalid  interior.  The  rosy  dream  became  a 
nightmare.  She  had  made  some  horrible  blunder.  It 
was  impossible  that  her  father  should  Hve  here.  But 
the  concierge  had  confirmed  the  address.  On  the 
fourth  floor  she  paused ;  then,  as  directed,  turned 
down  a  small,  ill-lit  passage  to  the  left.  On  a  door 
facing  her  at  the  end,  she  noticed  the  gleam  of  a  card. 
She  approached.     It  bore  the  printed  legend : 

"  Daniel  Fortinbras, 

Ancien  Avoue  de  Londres, 

Agent  de  Famille,  etc.  etc," 

And  written  in  pencil  was  the  direction  :    "  Sonnez, 
s.v.p. 

The  sight  reassured  and  comforted  her.  Behind  this 
thin  barrier  dwelt  those  dearest  to  her  on  earth,  the 
dimly  remembered  saintly  mother,  the  wise  and  tender 
father.    She  forgot  the  squalor  of  the  environment.    It 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  159 

was  merely  a  feature  of  Paris,  mighty  and  inscrutable, 
so  different  from  Brantome.  She  felt  a  little  throb  of 
pride  in  her  daring,  in  her  achievement.  Without 
guidance — ungenerously  she  took  no  account  of  the 
sergent  de  ville,  the  cabman,  and  the  concierge — she  had 
travelled  from  Chartres  to  this  inmost  heart  of  Paris. 
She  had  accompHshed  her  stupendous  adventure.  .  .  . 
The  card  invited  her  to  ring.  Above  it  hung  a  bit  of 
wood  attached  in  the  middle  to  a  length  of  twine.  She 
pulled,  and  an  answering  clang  was  heard  from  within 
the  apartment.     Her  whole  being  vibrated. 

After  a  moment's  waiting,  the  door  was  flung  open 
by  a  coarse,  red-faced,  slatternly  woman  standing  in  a 
poverty-stricken  Uttle  vestibule.  She  looked  at  the 
girl  with  curiously  glazed  eyes,  and  sUghtly  swayed  as 
she  put  up  a  hand  to  dishevelled  hair. 
"  Vous  desire z  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Fortinbras,"  gasped  F61ise,  scared  by  the 
abominable  apparition. 

"  Monsieur  Fortinbras  ?  "  She  mimicked  the  girl's 
clear  accent. 

"  Old,  madame,"  replied  FeUse. 
Whereupon  the  woman  withered  her  with  a  sudden 
volley  of  drunken  abuse.     She  knew  how  Fortinbras 
occupied  himself  all  day  long.     She  did  not  complain. 
But  when  the  gonzesses  of  the  rive  gauche  had  the 
indecency  to  come  to  his  house,  she  would  very  soon 
put  them  across  her  knee  and  teach  them  manners. 
This  is  but  a  paraphrase  of  what  fell  upon  Felise's 
terror-stricken  ears.     It  fell  Uke  an  avalanche  ;   but  it 
did  not  last  long,  for  suddenly  came  a  voice  well  known, 
but  pitched  in  an  unfamiliar  key  of  anger  : 
"  Quest-ce  qu'il y  a?  " 
And  Fortinbras  appeared. 

As  he  caught  sight  of  his  daughter's  white  face,  he 
clapped  his  hands  to  his  head  and  reeled  back,  horror 
in  his  eyes.     Then  : 

"  Tais-toi !  "  he  thundered,  and  seizing  the  woman 


i6o  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

masterfully  by  the  arms,  he  pushed  her  into  some 
inner  room,  leaving  Felise  shaking  on  the  threshold. 
In  a  moment  or  two  he  reappeared,  caught  overcoat 
and  old  silk  hat  from  a  peg,  and  motioning  Felise  back, 
marched  out  of  his  home  and  slammed  the  door  behind 
him.  Father  and  daughter  were  now  in  the  neutreil 
ground  at  the  end  of  the  dim,  malodorous  passage. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  God  are  you  doing  here, 
Fehse  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  see  my  mother." 

The  fleshy,  benign  face  of  the  man  fell  into  the  sagg 
of  old  age.  His  lower  hp  hung  loose.  His  mild  blue 
eyes,  lamping  out  from  beneath  noble  brows,  stared 
agony. 

"  Your  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Where  is  she  ?  " 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  Your  mother — well — she 
is  in  a  nursing  home,  dear.  No  one,  not  even  I,  can 
see  her."  He  took  her  by  the  arm  and  hurried  her  to 
the  staircase.  "  Come,  come,  dear,  we  must  get  away 
from  this.  You  understand.  I  did  not  tell  you  your 
mother  was  so  ill,  for  fear  of  making  you  unhappy." 

"  But  that  dreadful  woman,  father  ?  "  she  cried. 
And  the  Alpine  flower  from  which  honey  is  made 
looked  like  a  poor  Httle  frostbitten  lily  of  the  valley. 
She  faced  him  on  the  landing. 

"  That  woman — that — "  He  waved  an  arm.  "  That," 
said  he,  quoting  bitterly,  "  is  a  woman  of  no  impor- 
tance." 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Felise. 

With  some  of  the  elemental  grossnesses  of  Hfe  she 
was  acquainted.  You  cannot  manage  an  hotel  in 
France,  which  is  a  free,  non-Puritanical  country,  and 
remain  in  imbecile  ignorance.  She  was  shocked  to  the 
depths  of  her  being. 

"  Come,"  said  Fortinbras  with  outstretched  hand. 
But  she  shrank  from  him.  "  Come  !  "  he  commanded. 
"  There's  no  tune  to  los^.    We  must  get  out  of  this." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  i6i 

"  Where  are  we  going  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  the  Gare  Montparnasse.  You  must  return  at 
once  to  Chartres." 

"  I  will  never  enter  the  house  of  Aunt  Clothilde 
again,"  said  Fehse. 

"  But  what  has  happened  ?  My  God  !  what  has 
happened  ?  "  he  asked,  as  they  hurried  down  the 
stairs. 

Breathlessly,  brokenly,  she  told  him.  In  the  court- 
yard he  paused,  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"  But  what  can  I  do  with  you  ?  My  God  !  what 
can  I  do  with  you  in  this  dreadful  city  ?  " 

"  Isn't  there  an  hotel  in  Paris  ?  "  she  asked  coldly. 

He  laughed  in  a  mirthless  way.  "  There  are  many. 
There  are  the  Ritz  and  the  Meurice  and  the  Elysee 
Palace.     Oh  yes — there  are  hotels  enough." 

"  I  have  plenty  of  money,"  she  said. 

"  No,  no,  my  child,"  said  he.  "  Not  an  hotel.  I 
should  go  mad.     I  have  an  idea.     Come." 

They  had  just  reached  the  evil  pavement  of  the  Rue 
Maugrabine,  when  Cecile  Fortinbras,  sister  of  the 
excellent  Gaspard  Bigourdin  and  the  pious  Clothilde 
Robineau,  and  mother  of  Fehse,  recovered  from  the 
stupor  to  which  the  unprecedented  fury  of  her  husband 
had  reduced  her,  and  reeled  drunkenly  to  the  flat 
door. 

"  Je  vais  arracJwr  Us  yeux  a  cette  ptitain-ld  !  " 

She  started  to  tear  the  hussy's  eyes  out ;  but  by  the 
time  she  had  accomplished  the  difficult  descent  and 
had  expounded  her  grievances  to  an  unsympathetic 
concierge,  a  motor  omnibus  was  conveying  father  and 
daughter,  silent  and  anguislied,  to  the  other  side  of  the 
River  Seine. 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  huge  door  on  the  Boulevard  Saint  Germain  swung 
open  at  Fortinbras's  ring,  and  admitted  them  to  a 
warm,  marble-floored  vestibule  adorned  with  rugs, 
palms,  and  a  cast  or  two  of  statuary.  Facing  them,  in 
its  cage  of  handsome  wrought  ironwork,  stood  the  hft. 
All  indicated  a  life  so  far  apart  from  that  of  the  Rue 
Maugrabine  that  Felise,  in  spite  of  the  despair  and 
disillusion  that  benumbed  her  soul,  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise. 

"  Who  hves  here  ?  " 

"  LuciUa  Merriton,  an  American  girl.  Pray  God  she 
is  in,"  repHed  Fortinbras,  opening  the  Uft  gate.  "  We 
can  but  see." 

He  pressed  the  second-floor  button,  and  the  lift 
shot  up.  On  the  landing  were  the  same  tokens  of 
luxury.  A  neat  maid  answered  the  door.  Made- 
moiselle Merriton  was  at  home,  but  she  had  just  begun 
dinner.  Fortinbras  drew  a  card  from  a  shabby  pocket- 
book. 

"  Tell  mademoiselle  that  the  matter  is  urgent." 

The  maid  retired,  leaving  them  in  a  small  lobby 
beyond  which  was  a  hall  lit  by  cunningly  subdued 
lights,  and  containing  (to  Felise's  unsophisticated 
vision)  a  museum  of  costly  and  beautiful  objects. 
Strange  skins  of  beasts  lay  on  the  poUshed  floor,  old 
Spanish  chests  in  glowing  crimson  girt  with  steel,  queer 
chairs  with  straight  tall  backs,  such  as  she  had  seen 
in  the  sacristies  of  old  churches  in  the  Dordogne,  and 
richly  carved  tables  were  ranged  against  the  walls,  and 
above  them  hung  paintings  of  old  masters,  such  as 

162 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  163 

she  was  wont  to  call  "  holy  pictures,"  in  gilt  frames. 
From  the  soft  mystery  of  a  corner  gleamed  a  marble 
copy  of  the  Venus  de'  Medici,  which,  from  Felise's 
point  of  view,  was  not  holy  at  all.  Yet  the  sense  of 
beauty  and  comfort  pervading  the  place  appealed  to 
her  senses.  She  stood  on  the  threshold  looking  round 
wonderingly,  when  a  door  opened,  and,  in  a  sudden 
shaft  of  light,  appeared  a  tall,  slim  figure  wliich 
advanced  with  outstretched  hand.  Fehse  shrank 
behind  her  father. 

"  Why,  Fortinbras,  what  good  wind  has  brought 
you  ?  "  The  lady  spoke  in  a  rich  and  somewhat  lazy 
contralto.  "  Excuse  that  celestial  idiot  of  a  Celeste 
for  leaving  you  standing  here  in  the  cold.  Come 
right  in." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  hall,  and  then  became 
aware  of  Felise  and  flashed  a  glance  of  inquiry. 

"  This  is  my  little  daughter,  Lucilla." 

"  Why  ?  Not  Felise  ?  "  She  gave  her  both  hands  in 
a  graceful  gesture.  "  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  I've 
heard  all  about  you  from  Corinna  Hastings.  I  put  her 
up  for  the  night  on  her  way  back  to  London,  you 
know.  Now  why" — still  holding  FeHse's  hands — 
"  have  you  kept  her  from  us  aU  this  time,  Fortinbras  ? 
I  don't  Uke  you  at  all." 

"  Paris,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  isn't  good  for  little  girls 
who  live  in  the  heart  of  France." 

"  But  surely  the  heart  of  France  is  Paris !  "  cried 
LuciUa  Merriton. 

"  Paris,  my  dear  Lucilla,"  replied  Fortinbras  gravely, 
"  may  be  the  liver,  the  spleen,  the  pancreas — whatever 
giblets  you  please  of  France  ;   but  it  is  not  its  heart." 

Lucilla  laughed ;  and  when  she  laughed  she  had  a 
way  of  throwing  up  her  head  which  accentuated  the 
graceful  setting  of  her  neck.  Her  thick  brown  hair 
brushed  back,  ever  so  little  suggestive  of  the  Pompa- 
dour, from  her  straight  forehead,  aided  the  unconscious 
charm  of  the  habit. 


i64  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  We  won't  argue  the  point.  You've  brought  FeHse 
here  because  you  want  me  to  look  after  her.  How  did 
I  guess  ?  My  dear  man,  I've  lived  twenty-seven  years 
in  this  ingenuous  universe.  How  babes  unborn  don't 
spot  its  transparent  simplicity  I  never  could  imagine. 
You  haven't  dined." 

"  I  have,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  but  FeUse  hasn't." 

"  You  shall  dine  again.  It's  the  first  time  you 
have  condescended  to  visit  me,  and  I  exact  the 
penalty." 

She  went  to  the  open  door  whence  she  had  issued. 

"  Celeste  !  "  The  maid  appeared.  "  Monsieur  and 
mademoiselle  are  dining  with  me,  and  mademoiselle  is 
staying  the  night.  See  she  has  all  she  wants.  Allez 
vite.  Go,  my  dear,  with  Celeste,  and  be  quick,  for 
dinner's  getting  cold." 

And  when  Felise,  subdued  by  her  charming  master- 
fulness, had  retired  in  the  wake  of  the  maid.  Miss 
Merriton  turned  on  Fortinbras. 

"  Now,  what's  the  trouble  ?  " 

In  a  few  words  he  told  her  what  was  meet  for  a 
stranger  to  know. 

"  So  she  ran  away  and  came  to  you  for  protection 
and  you  can't  put  her  up  ?     Is  that  right  ?  " 

"  The  perch  of  an  old  vulture  like  myself,"  said  he, 
"  is  no  fit  place  for  my  daughter." 

Lucilla  nodded.  "  That's  all  right.  But,  say — you 
don't  approve  of  this  mediaeval  sort  of  marriage 
business,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  retain  my  English  views.  I  shall  explain  them 
to  my  brother-in-law  and  forbid  the  alliance.  Besides, 
the  excellent  Bigourdin  is  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
force  her  into  a  distasteful  marriage.  Reassure  her  on 
that  point.  She  can  go  back  to  Brantome  with  a 
quiet  mind." 

"  Will  you  remain  in  Paris  with  a  mind  equally 
serene  ?  "  Lucilla  asked,  her  deep  grey  eyes  examining 
his  face,  which  he  had  vainly  endeavoured  to  compose 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  165 

into  its  habitual  aspect  of  detached  benevolence.  He 
met  her  glance. 

"  The  derelict,"  said  he,  "  is  a  thing  of  no  account. 
But  it  is  better  that  it  should  not  lie  in  the  course  of 
the  young  and  living  ship." 

Lucilla  put  her  hands  behind  her  back  and  sat  on 
the  corner  of  an  old  Venetian  table.  And  she  still 
looked  at  him,  profoundly  interested.  Here  was  a 
Fortinbras  she  had  never  met  before,  a  broken  man, 
far  removed  from  the  shrewd  and  unctuous  Marchand 
de  Bonheur  of  the  Latin  Quarter  with  his  rolling  periods 
and  opportunist  philosophy. 

"  There's  something  behind  all  this,"  she  remarked. 
"  H  I'm  to  be  any  good,  I  ought  to  know." 

He  recovered  a  Uttle  and  smiled.  "  Your  perspica- 
city does  credit  to  your  country,"  said  he.  "  Also  to 
your  sex.  There  is  much  behind  it.  An  unbridgeable 
gulf  of  human  sorrow.  Remember  that,  should  my 
little  girl  be  led  away — which  I  very  much  doubt — to 
talk  to  you  of  most  unhappy  things.  She  only  came  to 
the  edge  of  the  gulf  half  an  hour  ago.  The  marriage 
matter  is  but  a  thistledown  of  care." 

"  I  more  or  less  see,"  said  Lucilla.  "  The  \nilture's 
perch  overhangs  the  gulf.  Right.  Now  what  do  you 
want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Just  keep  her  until  I  can  find  a  way  to  send  her 
back  to  Brant ome." 

LucUla  raised  a  hand,  and  reflected  for  a  few  seconds. 
Then  she  said  :   "  I'll  run  her  down  there  myself  in  the 


car." 


"  That  is  most  kind  of  you,"  replied  Fortinbras 
but  Brantome  is  not  Versailles.  It  is  nearly  three 
hundred  miles  away." 

"  Well  ?  \Vhat  of  that  ?  I  suppose  I  can  com- 
mandeer enough  gasoHne  in  France  to  take  me  three 
hundred  miles.  Besides,  I  am  due  the  end  of  next 
week,  anyway,  to  stay  with  some  friends  at  Cap 
Martin,  before  going  to  Egypt.     I'll  start  a  day  or 


i66  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

two  earlier,  and  drop  Felise  on  my  way.  Will  that 
suit  you  ?  " 

"  But,  again,  Brantome  is  not  on  your  direct  route 
to  Monte  Carlo,"  he  objected. 

She  slid  to  her  feet  and  laughed.  "  Do  you  want  me 
to  be  a  young  mother  to  your  little  girl,  or  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  he. 

"  Then  don't  conjure  up  lions  in  the  path.  See 
here."  She  touched  liis  sleeve.  "  You  were  a  good 
friend  to  me  once  when  I  had  that  poor  Httle  fool 
Effie  James  on  my  hands — I  shouldn't  have  pulled  her 
through  without  you — and  you  wouldn't  accept  more 
than  your  ridiculous  fee ;  and  now  I've  got  a  chance 
of  showing  5^ou  how  much  I  appreciate  what  you  did. 
I  don't  know  what  the  trouble  is,  and  now  I  don't 
want  to  know.  But  you  are  my  friend,  and  so  is  your 
daughter." 

Fortinbras  smiled  sadly.  "  It  is  you  that  are  the 
Marchand  de  Bonheur.  You  remove  an  awful  load 
from  my  mind."  He  took  his  old  silk  hat  from  the 
console  where  he  had  deposited  it,  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "  The  old  vulture  won't  stop  to  dinner.  He 
must  be  flying.  Give  my  love,  my  devoted  love,  to 
Felise." 

And  with  an  abruptness  which  she  could  not  reconcile 
with  his  usual  suave  formality  of  manner,  he  turned 
swiftly  and  walked  through  the  lobby  and  disappeared. 
His  leave-taking  almost  resembled  the  flight  he  spoke  of. 

The  wealthy,  comely,  even-balanced  American  girl 
looked  blankly  at  the  flat  door  and  wondered,  conscious 
of  tragedy.  What  was  the  gulf  of  which  he  spoke  ? 
She  knew  little  about  the  man.  .  .  .  Two  years  before, 
a  girl  from  Cheyenne,  Wyoming,  who  had  brought  her 
letters  of  introduction,  came  to  terrible  grief.  There 
was  blackmail  at  her  throat.  Somebody  suggested 
Fortinbras  as  counsellor.  She,  Lucilla,  consulted  him. 
He  succeeded  in  sending  a  damsel,  foohsh,  reprehensible 
and  frightened,  but  intact  in  reputation  and  pocket, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  167 

back  to  her  friends  in  Cheyenne.  His  fees  for  so  doing 
amounted  to  twenty  francs.  For  two  years,  therefore, 
she  had  passed  the  time  of  day  friendlimse  with 
Fortinbras  whenever  she  met  him ;  but  until  her 
fellow-student,  Corinna  Hastings,  sought  her  hospitality 
on  the  way  back  to  England,  and  told  her  of  Brantome 
and  Felise,  she  had  regarded  him  merely  as  one  of  the 
strange,  sweet  monsters,  devoid  of  domestic  attributes, 
even  of  a  private  hfe,  that  Paris,  city  of  portents  and 
prodigies,  had  a  monopoly  in  producing.  .  .  .  And 
now  she  had  come  upon  just  a  flabby,  elderly  man, 
piteously  anxious  to  avert  some  sordid  misery  from  his 
own  flesh  and  blood.  She  sighed,  turned,  and  saw 
Felise  in  charge  of  Celeste. 

"  Come,  you  must  be  famished."  She  put  her  arm 
round  the  girl's  waist  and  led  her  into  the  dining-room. 
"  Your  father  couldn't  stay.  But  he  told  me  to  give 
you  his  love  and  to  regard  myself  as  a  sort  of  young 
mother  to  you." 

FeHse  murmured  a  shy  acknowledgment.  She  was 
too  much  dazed  for  coherent  thought  or  speech.  The 
discovery  of  the  conditions  in  which  her  father  Hved, 
and  the  sudden  withering  of  her  faith  in  him,  had 
almost  immediately  been  followed  by  her  transference 
into  this  warm  wonder-house  of  luxury  owned  and 
ruled  by  this  queenly  young  woman,  so  exquisite  in 
her  simple  marvel  of  a  dress.  The  soft  lights,  the 
pictures,  the  elusive  reflections  from  poHshed  wood, 
the  gleam  of  heavy  silver  and  cut  glass,  the  bowl  of 
orchids  on  the  table,  the  delicate  napery — she  had 
never  dreamed  of  such  though  she  held  herself  to  be  a 
judge  of  table-Hnen — the  hundred  adjuncts  of  a  wealthy 
woman's  dining-room,  all  filled  her  with  a  sense  of  the 
um-eal,  and  at  the  same  time  raised  her  poor  fallen 
father  in  her  estimation  by  investing  him  with  the 
character  of  a  magician.  Dainty  food  was  placed 
before  her,  but  she  could  scarcely  eat.  Lucilla,  to  put 
her  more  at  her  ease,  talked  of  Corinna  and  of  Bran- 


i68  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

tome,  which  she  was  dying  to  visit,  and  of  the  quaint 
EngHshman,   she  had  forgotten  his  name,   who  had 
become  a  waiter.     How  was  he  getting  on  ? 
"  Monsieur  Martin  ?     Very  well,  thank  you." 
She  put  down  the  glass  of  wine  which  she  was  about 
to  raise  to  her  Hps.     For  nearly  an  hour  she  had  not 
thought  of  Martin.     She  felt  sundered  from  him  by 
many  seas  and  continents.     Since  seeing  him,  through  ' 
what  scorching  adventures  had  she  not  passed  ?     She 
had    changed.     The    world    had    changed.     Nothing 
would  ever  be  the  same  again.     Tears  came  into  her 
eyes.    -Lucilla,  observing  them,  smiled. 
"  You  like  Monsieur  Martin  ?  " 
"  Everybody  likes  him  ;  he  is  so  gentle,"  said  Felise. 
"  But  is  that  what  women  look  for  in  a  man  ?  " 
asked  Lucilla.     "  Doesn't  she  want  some  one  strong  to 
lean  on  ?     Something  to  appeal  to  the  imagination  ? 
Something  more  panache  ?  " 

Felise  thought  of  Lucien  Viriot  and  his  cavalry 
plume,  and  shivered.  No.  She  did  not  want  panache. 
Martin's  quiet,  simple  ways,  she  knew  not  why,  were 
worth  all  the  clanking  of  all  the  sabres  in  the  world  put 
together. 

"  That  depends  on  temperament,  mademoiselle," 
said  Felise  in  French 

Lucilla    laughingly    exclaimed :     "  You    dear    little 
mouse.     I  suppose  a  tom-cat  frightens  you  to  death." 
But  F^Use  was  only  listening  with  her  outer  ears. 
"  I  am  very  fond  of  cats,"  she  replied  simply. 

Whereupon  Lucilla  laughed  again  with  quick  under- 
standing. 

"  I  have  a  half-grown  Persian  kitten,"  she  said, 
"  rather  a  beauty.  Celeste,  apportez-moi  le  shah  de 
Perse.     That's  my  little  joke." 

"  C'est  un  calembour,"  said  Felise,  with  a  smile. 
"  Of  course  it  is.     It's  real  smart  of  you  to  see  it.     I 
call  him  Padishah." 

Celeste  brought  a  grey  woolly  mass  of  felinity  from 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  169 

a  basket  in  a  dim  corner  and  handed  it  to  Felise.     The 
beast  purred  and  stretched  contentedly  in  her  arms. 

"  Oh,  what  a  dear  !  "  she  cried,  "  what  a  fluffy  httle 
dear  !  For  the  last  week  or  two,"  she  found  herself 
saying,  "  my  only  friend  has  been  a  cat." 

"  What  kind  of  cat  ?  "  asked  Lucilla. 

"  Oh,  not  one  like  this.  It  was  a  thin  old  tabby." 
And  under  the  influence  of  the  soft  baby  thing  on  her 
bosom  and  the  kind  eyes  of  her  young  hostess,  the 
shyness  melted  from  her,  and  she  told  of  Mimi,  and 
Aunt  Clothilde,  and  the  abhorred  cathedral,  and  the 
terrors  ol  her  flight  to  Paris. 

She  had  come,  more  or  less,  to  an  end,  when  Celeste 
brought  in  a  Pekinese  spaniel,  and  sat  him  down  on 
the  hearthrug  to  a  plate  of  minced  raw  beef,  which  he 
proceeded  to  devour  with  hghtning  gluttony.  Having 
licked  the  polished  plate  from  hearthrug  to  clattering 
parquet  and  hcked  it  underneath  in  the  hope  of  a 
grain  of  nourishment  having  melted  through,  he  arched 
his  tail  above  his  back,  and  composing  his  miniature 
leonine  features,  regarded  his  mistress  with  his  soul  in 
his  eyes,  as  who  should  say  :  "  Now,  having  tasted, 
when  shall  1  truly  dine  ?  "  But  Lucilla  sent  him  to 
his  chair,  where  he  assumed  an  attitude  of  pohte 
surprise ;  and  she  explained  to  Felise,  captivated  by  his 
doggy  winsomeness,  that  she  called  him  "  Gaby," 
which  was  short  for  HeHogabalus,  the  voluptuary; 
which  allusion  FeUse,  not  being  famihar  with  "  The 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,"  did  not  under- 
stand. But,  when  Lucilla,  breaking  through  rules  of 
discipUne,  caught  up  the  tawny  httle  aristocrat  and 
apostrophized  him  as  "  the  noseless  blunder,"  Felise 
laughed  heartily,  thinking  it  very  funny,  and,  holding 
the  kitten  in  her  left  arm,  took  him  from  Lucilla  with 
her  right,  and  covered  the  tiny  hedonist  with  caresses. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  Lucilla  took  her,  still 
embracing  kitten  and  dog,  into  the  studio — the  wealthy 
feminine    amateur's    studio — a    room    with    polished 


170  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

floors  and  costly  rugs  and  divans  and  tapestries  and 
an  easel  or  two  and  a  great  wood  fire  blazing  up  an 
imitation  Renaissance  chimney-piece.  And  Lucilla 
talked,  not  only  as  though  she  had  known  FeUse  aU 
her  Ufe,  but  as  though  Felise  was  the  most  fascinating 
little  girl  she  had  ever  met.  And  it  was  all  more 
Wonderland  for  FeHse.  And  so  it  continued  during 
the  short  evening  ;  for  Lucilla,  seeing  that  she  was 
tired,  ordered  the  removal  to  their  respective  padded 
baskets  of  dog  and  cat,  both  of  which  Felise  had 
retained  in  her  embrace,  and  sent  her  to  bed  early ; 
and  it  continued  during  the  process  of  undressing 
amid  the  beautiful  trifles  wheremth  she  performed  her 
toilet,  and  after  she  had  put  on  the  filmy,  gossamer 
garment  adorned  with  embroidered  miracles  that 
Celeste  had  laid  out  for  her,  and  after  she  had  sunk 
asleep  in  the  fragrant  Unen  of  the  warm  nest.  But  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  she  awoke  and  saw  the  face  of 
the  dreadful  woman  in  the  Rue  Maugrabine,  and 
heard  the  voice  of  her  Aunt  Clothilde  speaking  blas- 
phemy against  her  father,  and  then  she  upbraided 
herself  for  being  led  away  by  the  enchantment  of  the 
Wonder-house,  and,  breaking  down,  sobbed  for  her 
lost  illusions  until  the  da^vn. 

In  the  meanwhile  a  heart-broken  man  sat  in  a  sordid 
room  toiling  dully  at  the  task  of  translating  French 
commercial  papers  into  Enghsh,  by  which  means  he 
added  a  httle  to  his  precarious  income,  while  on  the 
other  side  of  the  partition  his  wife  slept  drunkenly. 
That  had  been  his  domestic  life,  good  God !  he 
reflected,  for  more  years  than  he  cared  to  number. 
But  up  to  then  Fehse  had  been  kept  in  ignorance. 
Now  the  veil  had  been  hfted.  She  had,  indeed, 
retained  the  mother  of  her  dreams,  but  at  what  a  cost 
to  him  !  Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  tell  her 
the  truth  ?  He  stared  at  the  typewritten  words  until 
they  were  hidden  by  a  mist  of  tears.  He  had  lost  all 
that  made  life  sweet  for  him — the  love  of  FeHse. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  171 

He  bowed  his  head  in  his  hands.  Judgment  had  at 
last  descended  on  him  for  the  sins  of  his  youth  ;  for 
he  had  erred  grievously.  All  the  misery  he  had 
endured  since  then  had  been  but  a  preparation  for  the 
blow  that  had  now  fallen.  It  would  be  easy  to  go 
to  her  to-morrow  and  say :  "  I  deceived  you  last 
night.  The  woman  you  saw  was  your  mother."  But 
he  knew  he  would  never  be  able  to  say  it.  He  must 
pay  the  great  penalty. 

He  paid  it  the  next  day  when  he  called  humbly  to 
see  her.  She  received  him  dutifully  and  gave  him  her 
cheek  to  kiss,  but  he  felt  her  shrink  from  him,  and 
read  the  anguished  condemnation  in  her  eyes.  He 
saw  too,  for  he  was  quick  at  such  things,  how  her 
glance  took  in,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  his  worn 
black  clothes,  his  frayed  linen,  his  genteel  shabbiness,  a 
grotesque  contrast  to  the  air  of  wealth  in  which  she 
found  herself.  And  he  knew  that  she  had  no  mean 
thoughts,  but  was  pierced  to  the  heart  by  the  discovery  ; 
for  she  turned  her  head  aside  and  bit  her  lip,  so  that 
he  should  not  guess. 

"  I  should  Uke  to  tell  you  what  I  have  done,"  said 
he,  after  some  desultory  and  embarrassed  talk  about 
Lucilla.  "  I  have  telegraphed  to  Chartres  and  Bran- 
tome  to  say  that  you  are  safe  and  sound,  and  I  have 
written  to  your  Uncle  Gaspard  about  Lucien  Viriot. 
You  will  never  hear  of  the  matter  again,  unless  your 
Aunt  Clothilde  goes  to  Brantome,  which  I  very  much 
doubt." 

"  Thank  you,  father,"  said  FeUse,  and  the  common- 
place words  sounded  cold  in  her  ears.  She  was 
delivered,  she  knew,  from  the  nightmare  of  the  past 
few  weeks ;  but  she  found  Httle  joy  in  her  freedom. 
Then  she  asked  : 

"  Have  you  told  Uncle  Gaspard  why  I  ran  away 
from  Aunt  Clothilde  ?  " 

"  Enough,  dear,  for  him  to  understand.  He  will  ask 
you  no  questions,  so  you  needn't  tell  him  anything." 


172  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Won't  that  be  ungrateful  ?  I  have  treated  him 
ungratefully  enough  already." 

Fortinbras  stretched  out  his  hand  to  lay  it  caressingly 
on  her  head,  as  he  had  done  all  her  hfe,  but,  remember- 
ing, withdrew  it,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Your  uncle  is  the  best  and  truest  man  I  have  ever 
met,"  said  he.  "  And  he  loves  you  dearly  and  you 
love  him — and  with  love  ingratitude  can't  exist.  Tell 
him  whatever  you  find  in  your  heart.  But  there  is 
one  thing  you  need  never  tell  him — what  j^ou  saw  in 
the  Rue  Maugrabine  last  night.  I  have  done  so 
already.  In  this  way  there  will  be  nothing  secret 
between  you." 

She  sat  with  tense  young  face,  looking  at  her  hands. 
Again  she  saw  the  squalid  virago.  She  would  see  her 
till  her  dying  day.  To  no  one  on  earth  could  she 
speak  of  her. 

Fortinbras  rose,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  went 
forth  to  his  day's  work  of  dealing  out  happiness  to  a 
clamouring  world. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LuciLLA  Merriton  had  much  money,  a  kind  heart, 
and  a  pretty  little  talent  in  painting.  The  last  secured 
her  admittance  to  the  circle  of  art  students  round 
about  the  Rue  Bonaparte,  the  second  made  her  popular 
among  them,  and  the  money  enabled  her  to  obey  any 
reasonable  dictate  of  the  kind  heart  aforesaid.  When 
those  who  were  her  intimates,  mainly  hard-working 
and  none  too  opulent  English  gills,  took  her  to  task 
for  her  luxurious  way  of  Hving,  and  pointed  out  that 
it  was  not  in  keeping  with  the  Spartan,  makeshift 
traditions  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  that  it  differen- 
tiated her  too  much  from  her  fellows,  she  replied,  with 
the  frankness  of  her  country,  first,  that  she  saw  no 
sense  in  pretending  to  be  other  than  she  was ;  second, 
that  in  the  atmosphere  of  luxury  to  which  she  had 
been  born  she  was  herself,  for  whatever  that  self  was 
worth  ;  and  thirdly,  that  any  masquerading  as  a  Hver 
of  the  simple  Ufe  would  choke  all  the  agreeable  qualities 
out  of  her.  When,  looking  round  her  amateur  studio, 
they  objected  that  she  did  not  take  her  art  seriously, 
she  cordially  agreed. 

"  I  take  what  you  call  my  art,"  she  would  say, 
"  just  as  it  suits  me.  I  can  command  too  many  things 
in  the  world  for  me  to  sacrifice  them  to  the  mediocre 
result  I  can  get  out  of  a  paint-brush  and  a  bit  of  canvas. 
I  shall  never  need  paint  for  money,  and  if  I  did  I'm 
sure  I  shouldn't  earn  any.  But  I  love  painting  for  its 
own  sake,  and  I  have  enough  talent  to  make  it  worth 
while  to  have  good  instruction  in  technique.  So  that 
my  pictures  shall  more  or  less  satisfy  myself  and  not 

173 


174  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

set  my  friends'  teeth  on  edge.     And  that's  why  I'm 
here." 

She  was  a  wealthy  vagabond  of  independent  fortune 
inherited  from  her  mother,  long  since  deceased,  with 
no  living  ties  save  her  father,  a  railway  director  in 
America,  now  married  to  a  young  wife,  a  schoolmate  of 
her  own,  whom,  since  her  childhood,  she  had  peculiarly 
abhorred.  But  in  the  world  which  lay  wide  open  to 
her,  videlicet  the  civilized  nations  of  the  two  hemi- 
spheres, she  had  innumerable  friends.  No  human  will 
pretended  to  control  her  actions.  She  was  as  free  to 
live  in  Rosario  as  in  Budapest ;  in  Nairobi  as  in 
Nijni-Novgorod.  For  the  last  two  or  three  years  she 
had  elected  to  establish  her  headquarters  in  Paris  and 
study  painting.  But  why  the  latter  process  should 
involve  a  hard  bed  in  a  shabby  room  and  dreadful 
meals  at  the  Petit  Comichon  she  could  never  under- 
stand. Occasionally,  on  days  of  stress  at  the  atelier, 
she  did  lunch  at  the  Petit  Comichon.  It  was  con- 
venient, and,  as  she  was  young  and  thirsty  for  real 
draughts  of  Hfe,  the  chatter  and  hubbub  of  insensate 
ambitions  afforded  her  both  interest  and  amusement ; 
but  she  found  the  food  execrable  and  the  universal 
custom  of  cleaning  knife,  fork,  spoon,  and  plate  before 
using  them  exceedingly  disgusting.  Yet,  being  a  lady 
born  and  bred,  she  performed  the  objectionable  rite 
in  the  most  gracious  way  in  the  world  ;  and  when  it 
came  to  comradeship,  then  her  democratic  traditions 
asserted  themselves.  Her  student  friends  ranged  the 
social  gamut.  If  the  wearer  were  a  hving  spirit,  she 
regarded  broken  boots  and  threadbare  garments 
merely  as  an  immaterial  accident  of  fortune,  like  a 
broken  nose  or  an  amputated  hmb.  The  flat  on  the 
Boulevard  Saint  Germain  was  the  haven  of  many  a 
hungry  girl  and  boy.  And  they  found  their  way 
thither  (as  far  as  Lucilla  was  concerned),  not  because 
they  were  hungry,  but  because  that  which  lay  deep  in 
their  souls  had  won  her  accurate  recognition. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  175 

By  way  of  digression,  an  essential  difference  in  point 
of  view  between  English  and  Americans  may  here  be 
noted.  If  an  Englishman  has  reason  to  admire  a 
tinker  and  make  friends  with  him,  he  will  leave  his 
own  respectable  sphere  and  enter  that  of  the  tinker, 
and,  in  some  humble  haunt  of  tinkerdom,  where  he 
can  remain  incognito,  will  commune  with  his  crony 
over  pots  of  abominable  and  digestion-racking  ale. 
,/rhe  instinct  of  the  American,  in  sworn  brotherhood 
with  a  tinker,  is,  on  the  other  hand,  to  Hft  the  tinker 
to  his  own  habitation  of  deHght.  He  will  desire  to 
take  him  into  a  saloon  which  he  himself  frequents,  fill 
him  up  with  champagne,  and  provide  him  with  the 
best,  biggest,  and  strongest  cigar  that  money  can  buy. 
In  both  cases  appear  the  special  defects  of  national 
quaUties.  The  EngUshman  goes  to  the  tinker's  boozing- 
ken  (thereby,  incidentally,  putting  the  tinker  at  his 
ease)  because  he  would  be  ashamed  of  being  seen  by 
any  of  his  own  clan  in  a  tinker's  company.  The 
American  does  not  care  a  hang  for  being  seen  with  the 
tinker  ;  he  wants  to  give  his  friend  a  good  time  ;  but, 
incidentally,  he  has  no  intuitive  regard  for  the  tinker's 
feehngs,  predilections,  and  timidities. 

From  which  disquisition  it  may  be  understood  how 
LucHla  played  Lady  Bountiful  without  the  sUghtest 
consciousness  of  doing  so.  She  played  it  so  well,  with 
regard  to  Felise,  as  to  make  that  young  woman  in  the 
course  of  a  day  or  two  her  slave  and  worshipper.  She 
showed  her  the  sights  of  Paris,  Versailles,  the  Galeries 
Lafayette,  the  Tomb  of  Napoleon,  Poiret's,  the  Salon 
d'Hiver,  the  Pantheon,  and  Cartier's  in  the  Rue 
de  la  Paix.  With  the  aid  of  pins  and  scissors  and 
Celeste,  she  also  attired  her  in  an  evening  frock,  and 
under  the  nominal  protection  of  an  agreeable  young 
compatriot  from  the  Embassy  took  her  to  dine  at  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  and  then  to  the  Theatre  du  Gymnase. 
A  great,  soft-cushioned,  smooth,  noiseless  car  carried 
them  luxuriously  through  the  infinite  streets ;    and 


176  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

when  they  were  at  home  it  seemed  to  await  them  night 
and  day  by  the  kerb  of  the  Boulevard  Saint  Germain. 
Lucilla  set  the  head  of  the  Httle  country  mouse  awhirl 
with  sensations.  Fehse  revered  her  as  a  goddess,  and 
whispered  in  awe  the  Christian  name  which  she  was 
commanded  to  use. 

A  breathless  damsel,  with  a  jumble  of  conflicting 
scraps  of  terror  and  delight  instead  of  a  mind,  her  arms 
full  of  an  adored  Persian  kitten  and  an  adoring  Pekinese 
spaniel,  after  a  couple  of  days'  flashing  course  through 
France,  was  brought  in  the  gathering  dusk,  with  a 
triumphant  sweep  up  the  hill,  to  the  familiar  front 
door  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  Baptiste,  green- 
aproned,  gaped  as  he  saw  her,  and,  scuttling  indoors, 
shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice  : 

"  Monsieur,  monsieur,  c'est  mademoiselle  !  " 

In  an  instant,  Bigourdin  lumbered  out  at  full  speed. 
He  almost  lifted  her  from  the  car,  scattering  outraged 
kitten  and  offended  dog,  and  hid  her  in  his  vast 
embrace,  and  hugged  her  and  kissed  her  and  held  her 
out  at  arm's  length  and  laughed  and  hugged  her  again. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  the  prodigal's  welcome. 
She  laughed  and  sobbed  and  hugged  the  great 
man  in  return.  And  then  he  recovered  himself 
and  became  the  innkeeper,  and  assisted  Lucilla  to 
ahght,  while  FeUse  greeted  a  smiling  Martin  and 
suffered  the  embrace  of  Euphemie,  panting  from  the 
kitchen. 

"  If  mademoiselle  will  give  herself  the  trouble  of 
following  me — "  said  Bigourdin,  and  led  the  way  up 
the  stairs,  followed  by  Lucilla  and  Celeste,  guardian  of 
the  jewel-case.  He  threw  open  the  door  of  the  chambre 
d'honneur,  a  double-windowed  room,  above  the  terrace, 
overlooking  the  town  and  the  distant  mountain  of  the 
Limousin,  and  showed  her  with  pride  a  tiny  salon 
adjoining,  the  only  private  sitting-room  in  the  hotel, 
crossed  the  corridor  and  flung  to  view  the  famous 
batliroom,  disclosed  next  door  a  room  for  the  maid, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  177 

and  swept  her  back  to  the  bedroom,  where  a  pine-cone 
fire  was  blazing  fragrantly. 

"  Voild,  mademoiselle,"  said  he.  "  Tout  d  voire  dis- 
position." 

"  I  think  it  is  absolutely  charming,"  cried  Lucilla. 
She  looked  round.  "  Oh  !  what  lovely  things  you 
have  !  " 

Bigourdin  beamed  and  made  a  little  bow.  He  took 
inordinate  pride  in  his  chambre  d'honneur,  in  which 
he  had  stored  the  gems  of  the  Empire  furniture  acquired 
by  his  great-grandfather,  the  luckless  General  de 
Brigade.  The  instantaneous  appreciation  of  a  casual 
glance  enchanted  him. 

"  I  hope,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  in  his  courteous 
way,  "  you  will  do  Fehse  and  myself  the  honour  of 
being  our  guest  as  long  as  you  deign  to  stay  at 
Brantome." 

Lucilla  met  his  bright  eyes.  "  That's  deHghtful  of 
you,"  she  laughed.  "  But  I'm  not  one  solitary  person, 
I'm  a  caravan.  There's  me  and  the  maid  and  the 
chauffeur  and  the  car  and  the  dog  and  the  cat." 

"  The  hotel  is  very  Httle,  mademoiselle,"  replied 
Bigourdin,  "  but  our  hearts  are  big  enough  to  entertain 
them." 

Nothing  more,  or,  at  least,  nothing  more  by  way  of 
protest,  was  to  be  said.  Lucilla  put  out  her  hand  in 
her  free,  generous  gesture. 

"  Monsieur  Bigourdin,  I  accept  with  pleasure  your 
delightful  hospitality." 

"  Je  vous  remercie  infiniment,  mademoiselle,"  said 
Bigourdin. 

He  went  downstairs  in  a  flutter  of  excitement.  Not 
for  four  generations,  so  far  as  he  was  aware,  had  such 
an  event  occurred  in  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  Members 
of  the  family,  of  course,  had  stayed  there  without 
charge.  Once,  towards  the  end  of  the  Second  Empire, 
a  Minister  of  the  Interior  had  occupied  the  chambre 
d'honneur,  and  had  gone  away  without  paying  his  bill ; 


178  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

but  that  remained  a  bad  black  debt  in  the  books  of  the 
hotel.  Never  had  a  stranger  been  an  honoured  guest. 
He  had  offered  the  position,  it  is  true,  to  Corinna ; 
but  then  he  was  in  love  with  Corinna,  which  makes 
all  the  difference.  The  French  are  not  instinctively 
hospitable  ;  when  they  are  seized,  however,  by  the 
impulse  of  hospitality,  all  that  they  have  is  yours, 
down  to  the  last  crust  in  the  larder  ;  but  they  are 
fully  conscious  of  their  own  generosity,  they  feel  the 
tremendousness  of  the  spiritual  wave.  So  Bigourdin, 
kindest-hearted  of  men,  lumbered  downstairs  aglow 
with  a  sense  of  altruistic  adventure.  In  the  vestibule 
he  met  Felise,  who  had  Hngered  there  in  order  to 
obtain  from  Martin  a  compte  rendu  of  the  household 
and  the  neighbourhood.  Things  had  gone  none  too 
well — Monsieur  Peyrian,  one  of  their  regiilar  com- 
mercial travellers,  having  discovered  a  black-beetle  in 
his  bread  had  gone  to  the  Hotel  du  Cygne.  The  baker 
had  indignantly  repudiated  the  black-beetle,  his  own 
black-beetles  being  apparently  of  an  entirely  different 
species.  Another  baker  had  been  appointed,  whose 
only  defect  was  his  inability  to  bake  bread.  The 
brave  Madame  Thuillier,  who  had  been  called  in  to 
superintend  the  factory,  had  quarrelled,  after  two  days, 
with  everybody,  and  had  gone  off  in  dudgeon  because 
she  did  not  eat  at  the  patron's  table.  Then  they  had 
lost  two  of  their  best  hands,  one  a  young  married 
woman  who  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  add  to  the 
population  of  France,  and  the  other  a  girl  who  was 
discharged  for  laying  false  information  against  the 
very  respectable  and  much  married  Baptiste,  saying 
that  he  had  pinched  her.  The  old  Mere  Maquoise, 
marchande  de  quatre  saisons,  who  was  reputed  to  have 
known  General  Bigourdin,  was  dead,  and  one  of  the 
hotel  omnibus  horses  had  come  down  on  its  knees. 

Felise,  forgetful  of  the  Liaison  de  Blanc  and  Notre 
Dame,  wrung  her  hands.  She  had  descended  from 
fairyland  into  life's  dear  and  important  realities. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  179 

"  It's  desolating  what  you  tell  me,"  she  cried. 

"  And  all  because  you  went  away  and  left  us,"  said 
Martin. 

"  She  is  not  going  to  leave  us  again  !  "  cried  Bigour- 
din,  swooping  down  on  her  and  carrying  her  off. 

In  the  prim  Httle  salon  he  hugged  her  again  and  said, 
gripping  her  hands  : 

"  It  appears  you  have  greatly  suffered,  my  poor 
little  F61ise.  But  why  didn't  you  teU  me  from  the 
first  that  you  were  unhappy  with  your  Aunt  Clothilde  ? 
I  did  not  know  she  had  turned  into  such  a  vieille 
pimheche.  She  has  written.  And  I  have  answered. 
Ah  !  I  tell  you,  I  have  answered  !  You  need  never 
again  have  any  fear  of  your  Aunt  Clothilde.  I  hope 
I  am  a  Christian.  But  I  hope  too  that  I  shall  always 
differ  from  her  ii.  my  ideas  of  Christianity.  Mais  tout 
ga  est  fini — hel  et  Men  fini.  We  have  to  talk  of  our- 
selves. I  have  been  a  miserable  man  since  you  have 
been  away,  ma  petite  Fehse.  I  teU  you  that  in  all 
frankness.  Everything  has  been  at  sixes  and  sevens. 
I  can't  do  without  my  little  me'nagere.  And  you  shall 
never  marry  anybody,  even  the  President  of  the 
Republic,  unless  you  want  to.  Foi  de  Bigourdin ! 
Voild  !  " 

Felise  cried  a  little.  Her  uncle  was  far  too  kind 
to  her." 

"  Allans  done !  I  seem  to  have  been  an  old  bear. 
Yet,  in  truth,  I  am  harmless  as  a  sheep.  But  have 
confidence  in  me,  and  in  my  very  dear  friend,  your 
father — there  are  many  things  you  cannot  understand 
— and  tilings  will  arrange  themselves  quite  happily. 
You  love  me  just  a  little  bit,  don't  you  ?  " 

She  flung  her  arms  round  the  huge  man's  neck. 

"  Je  t'adore,  mon  petit  oncle,"  she  cried. 

Ten  minutes  afterwards,  with  bunch  of  keys  slung 
at  her  waist,  she  was  busy  restoring  to  order  the  chaos 
of  the  interregnum.  Terrible  things  had  happened 
during  the  absence  of  the  feminine  eye.     Even  Martin 


i8o  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

shared  the  universal  reprimand.  For  Felise,  mana- 
geress of  hotel,  and  Felise,  storm-tossed  little  human 
soul,  were  two  entirely  different  entities. 

"  My  dear  Martin,  how  could  you  and  my  uncle  pass 
these  napkins  from  that  infamous  old  thief  of  a 
laundress.     They  are  black  !  " 

And  ruthlessly  she  flicked  a  napkin  folded  mitre-wise 
from  the  centre  table  before  the  eyes  of  the  folder,  and 
revealed  its  dingy  turpitude. 

"  It  is  well  that  I  am  back,"  she  declared. 

"  It  is  indeed.  Mademoiselle  Felise,"  said  Martin. 

She  gave  him  a  swift  little  glance  out  of  the  tail  of 
her  eye,  before  she  sped  away,  and  the  corners  of  her 
lips  drooped  as  though  in  disappointment.  Then, 
perhaps  reflecting  that  she  had  been  addressing  the 
waiter  and  not  the  man,  her  face  cleared.  At  all  events 
he  had  taken  her  rating  in  good  part. 

Dinner  had  already  begun,  and  the  hungry  com- 
mercials, napkins  at  neck,  were  finishing  their  soup 
lustily,  when  Lucilla  entered  the  dining-room.  The 
open  Medici  collar  to  a  grey  velvet  dress  showed  the 
graceful  setting  of  her  neck,  and  harmonized  with  the 
brown  hair  brushed  up  from  the  forehead.  She 
advanced  smiling  and  stately,  giving  the  impression  of 
the  perfect  product  of  a  new  civilization.  Martin,  who 
had  but  seen  her  for  a  few  seconds  in  the  dusk  con- 
fusedly clad  in  furs,  stood  spellbound,  a  pile  of  used 
soup-plates  in  his  hands.  Never  had  so  radiant  an 
apparition  swum  before  his  gaze.  Bigourdin,  dining 
as  usual  with  Felise,  rose  immediately  and  conducted 
his  guest  to  the  little  table  by  the  terrace  where  once 
Martin  and  Corinna  had  sat.  It  was  specially  adorned 
with  tawny  chrysanthemums. 

"  I  fell  dreaming  before  the  fire  in  the  midst  of  your 
wonderful,  old-world  things,  and  had  to  hurry  into 
my  clothes,  and  so  I'm  late,"  she  apologized. 

"  If  only  you  found  all  you  needed,  mademoiselle — " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  i8i 

said  Bigourdin  anxiously.     "It  is  the  provinces  and 
not  Paris." 

She  assured  him  that  Felise  had  seen  to  every 
conceivable  want,  and  he  left  her  to  her  meal.  Martin 
delivered  his  soup-plates  into  the  arms  of  the  chamber- 
maid, and  hovered  over  Lucilla  with  the  menu  card. 

"  Will  mademoiselle  take  the  dinner  ?  "  he  asked  in 
French. 

She  regarded  him  calmly  and  humorously,  and 
nodded.  He  became  aware  that  her  eyes  were  of  a 
deep,  deep  grey,  full  of  Ught.  He  found  it  difficult  not 
to  keep  on  looking  at  them.  Breaking  away,  however, 
he  fetched  her  soup  and  went  off  to  attend  to  the 
others.  At  every  pause  by  her  table  he  noted  some 
new  and  incomparable  attribute.  When  bending  over 
the  platter  from  which  she  helped  herself,  he  saw  that 
her  hands  were  beautifully  shaped,  plump,  with  long 
thin  fingers  and  with  delicate  markings  of  veins 
beneath  the  white  skin.  An  upward  glance  caught 
more  blue  veins  on  the  temples.  Another  time  he  was 
struck  by  the  supple  grace  of  her  movements.  There 
were  infinite  gleams  in  her  splendid  hair.  The  faintest 
suggestion  of  perfume  arose  from  her  garments.  She 
declined  the  vegetable  course  and,  declining,  looked  up 
at  him  and  smiled.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  a 
brow  so  noble,  a  nose  so  exquisitely  cut,  hps  so  kind 
and  mocking.  Her  face  was  that  of  a  Romney  duchess 
into  which  the  thought  and  spiritual  freedom  of  the 
twentieth  century  had  entered.  As  he  sped  about  the 
service,  thrusting  dishes  beneath  bearded  or  blue, 
ill-shaven  chins,  her  face  floated  before  his  eyes  ;  every 
now  and  then  he  stole  a  distant  glance  at  it,  and 
longed  for  the  happy  though  transient  moment  when 
he  should  come  close  to  it  again. 

While   he  was   clearing  her   table   for   dessert  she 
said: 

"  Why  do  you  speak  French  to  me  when  you  know 
I'm  an  American  ?  " 


i82  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  It  is  the  custom  of  the  house  when  a  guest  speaks 
such  excellent  French  as  mademoiselle." 

"  That's  very  kind  of  you,"  she  said  in  English ; 
"  but  it  seems  rather  ridiculous  for  an  American  and 
an  Englishman  to  converse  in  a  foreign  language." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  am  English  ?  "  he  asked, 
his  heart  aflutter  at  the  unexpected  interchange  of 
words. 

She  laughed.  "  I  have  eyes.  Besides,  I  know  all 
about  you — first  from  our  friend  Corinna  Hastings,  and 
lately  from  my  little  hostess  over  the  way." 

He  flushed,  charmed  by  the  deep  music  of  her  voice, 
and  delighted  at  being  recognized  by  her,  not  only  as 
an  individual  (for  she  radiated  an  attraction  which  had 
caused  him  to  hate  the  conventional  impersonality  of 
waiter dom),  but  as  a  member,  more  or  less,  of  her 
own  social  class.  He  paused,  plate  of  crumbs  in  one 
hand  and  napkin  in  the  other. 

"  Do  you  know  Corinna  Hastings  ?  " 

"  Evidently.  How  else  could  she  have  told  me  of 
your  romantic  doings  ?  "  she  replied  laughingly,  and 
Martin  flushed  deeper,  conscious  of  an  idiot  question. 

He  set  the  apples  and  Uttle  white  grapes  before  her. 
"  I  ought  to  have  asked  you,"  said  he,  "  how  Miss 
Hastings  came  to  talk  to  you  about  me  ?  " 

"  She  came  on  the  train  from  Brantome  and  rang 
my  bell  in  Paris.  She  kept  me  up  talking  till  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Not  of  you  all  the  time. 
Don't  imagine  it.  You  were  just  interestingly  inci- 
dental." 

"  Gargon,"  cried  a  voice  from  the  centre  table. 

"  Bien,  m'sieur." 

Martin  tucked  his  napkin  under  his  arm  and  turned 
away,  followed  by  LuciUa's  humorous  glance. 

"  L' addition." 

"  Bien,  m'sieur." 

He  became  the  perfect  waiter  again,  and  brought 
*'he  bill  to  the  commercial  traveller  who  had  merely 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  183 

come  in  for  dinner.  The  latter  paid  in  even  money, 
rose  noisily — he  was  a  stout,  important,  red-faced 
man — and,  fumbling  in  several  pockets  rendered 
difficult  of  access  by  adiposity  and  good  cheer,  at  last 
produced  four  coppers  which  he  deposited  with  a 
base,  metallic  chink  in  Martin's  palm. 

"  Merci,  m'sieur.  Bon  soir,  m'sieur,"  said  the  perfect 
waiter.  But  he  would  have  given  much  to  be  able  to 
dispose  of  the  horrible  coins  otherwise  than  by  thrusting 
them  in  his  trouser  pocket,  to  be  able,  for  instance,  to 
hurl  them  at  the  triple  sausage  neck  of  the  departing 
donor ;  for  he  knew  the  starry,  humorous  eyes  of  the 
divinity  were  fixed  on  him.  He  felt  hot  and  clammy, 
and  did  not  dare  look  round.  And  the  hideous  thought 
flashed  through  his  mind  :  "  Will  she  offer  me  a  tip 
when  she  leaves  ?  " 

He  busied  himself  furiously  with  his  service,  and  in 
a  few  moments  was  reheved  to  see  her  ceremoniously 
conducted  by  Bigourdin  and  FeHse  from  the  salle  d 
manger.  On  the  threshold  Bigourdin  paused  and 
called  him, 

"  You  ^vill  serve  coffee  and  liqueurs  in  the  petii  salon, 
and  if  you  go  to  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,  you  will  kindly 
make  my  excuses  to  our  friends." 

To  enter  the  primly  and  plushily  furnished  salon 
bearing  the  tray,  and  to  set  out  the  cups  and  glasses 
and  bottles  was  an  ordeal  which  he  went  through  with 
the  automatic  rigidity  of  a  highly  trained  London 
footman,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left.  He  had  a 
vague  impression  of  a  queenly  figure  recHning  com- 
fortably in  an  arm-chair,  haloed  by  a  Httle  cloud  of 
cigarette  smoke.  He  retired,  finished  his  work  in  the 
pantry,  swallowed  a  little  food,  changed  his  things 
and  went  out. 

Instinct  led  him  along  the  quays  and  through  the 
narrow  old-world  streets  to  the  patch  of  yellow  light 
before  the  Cafe  de  TUnivers.  But  there  he  halted, 
suddenly  disinclined  to  enter.     Something  new  and 


i84  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

amazing  had  come  into  his  life — he  could  not  yet  tell' 
what — discordant  with  the  commonplace  of  the  familiar 
company.  He  looked  through  the  space  left  between 
the  edge  of  the  bHnd  and  the  jamb  of  the  window,  and 
saw  Beuzot,  the  professor  at  the  Ecole  Normale, 
plajdng  backgammon  with  ^Monsieur  Callot,  the  post- 
master ;  and  a  couple  of  places  away  from  them  was 
visible  the  square-headed  old  Monsieur  Viriot,  smiting 
his  left  palm  with  his  right  fist.  The  excellent  old  man 
always  did  that  when  he  inveighed  against  the  Govern- 
ment. To-night  Martin  cared  little  about  the  Govern- 
ment of  the  French  Republic ;  still  less  for  back- 
gammon. He  had  a  nostalgia  for  unknown  things, 
and  an  absurd  impulse  to  walk  abroad  to  find  them 
beneath  the  moon  and  stars.  Obe5dng  the  impulse, 
he  retraced  his  steps  along  the  quays  and  struck  the 
main  road  past  the  habitations  of  the  rock-dwellers. 
He  walked  for  a  couple  of  miles  between  rocks  casting 
jagged  shadows  and  a  calm  misty  plain  without  finding 
anything,  until,  following  a  laborious,  zigzag  course,  a 
dissolute  quarryman  of  his  acquaintance,  in  incapable 
charge  of  a  girl  child  of  five,  lurched  into  him  and  laid 
the  clutch  of  a  drowning  mariner  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Monsieur  Martin,"  said  he.  "It  is  the  good  God 
who  has  sent  you." 

"  Boucabeille,"  said  Martin — for  that  was  the  name 
of  the  miscreant — "  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself." 

"  You  need  not  tell  me.  Monsieur  Martin,"  repHed 
Boucabeille. 

As  the  child  was  crying  bitterly  and  the  father  was 
self-reproachful — he  had  taken  the  mioche  to  see  her 
aunt,  and  coming  back  had  met  some  friends  who  had 
enticed  him  into  the  cafe  of  the  Mere  Diridieu,  where 
they  had  given  him  some  poisoned  leg-dislocating 
alcohol — Martin  took  the  child  in  his  arms,  and 
trudged  back  to  the  rock-dwelHngs  where  the  drunkard 
lived.     On  the  way  Boucabeille,  reheved  of  paternal 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  185 

responsibility,  the  tired  child  now  snuggling  sleepily 
and  comfortably  against  Martin's  neck,  grew  confi- 
dential, and  confessed,  with  sly  enjoyment,  that  he 
had  already  well  watered  his  throttle  before  he  started. 
The  man,  he  declared,  with  the  luminousness  of  an 
apostle,  who  did  not  get  drunk  occasionally  was  an 
imbecile  denying  himself  the  pleasures  of  the  Other 
Life.  Martin  recognized  in  Boucabeille  a  transcen- 
dentaHst,  no  matter  how  muddle-headed.  The  sober 
clod  did  not  know  adventures.  He  did  not  know 
happiness.  The  path  of  the  drunkard,  Boucabeille 
explained,  was  strewn  with  joy. 

The  anxious  wife  who  met  them  at  the  door  called 
Martin  a  saint  from  heaven  and  her  husband  a 
stream  of  unmentionable  things.  He  staggered  under 
the  outburst,  and  laid  his  hand  again  on  Martin's 
shoulder. 

"  Monsieur  Martin,  I  have  committed  a  fault.  I 
take  you  to  witness  " — his  wife  paused  in  her  invective 
to  hear  the  penitent — "  if  I  was  more  drunk  I  wouldn't 
pay  attention  to  anything  she  says.  I  have  committed 
a  fault.     I  haven't  got  drunk  enough." 

"  Sale  cochon ! "  cried  the  lady,  and  Martin  left 
them,  meditating  on  the  philosophy  of  drunkenness. 
Quo  me  rapis  Bacche,  plenum  tut  ?  To  what  godhke 
adventure  ?  But  the  magic  word  was  plenum — right 
full  to  the  lips.  No  half  and  half  measures  for  Bacchus. 
Apparently  Boucabeille  had  failed  in  his  adventure 
and  had  missed  happiness  by  a  gill.  Browning's  Hnes 
about  the  little  more  and  the  little  less  came  into  his 
head,  and  he  laughed.  Both  the  poet  and  the  muddle- 
headed  quarryman  were  right.  Adventures  not  brought 
through  to  the  end  must  be  dismal  fiasco.  .  .  .  His 
mind  wandered  a  Uttle.  His  shoulder  was  ever  such 
a  trifle  stiff  from  carrying  the  child  ;  but  he  missed  the 
warmth  of  her  grateful  httle  body,  and  the  trusting 
clasp  of  her  tiny  arms.  It  had  been  an  insignificant 
adventure    an  adventure,  so  to  speak,  in  miniature 


i86  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

but  it  had  been  complete,  rounded  off,  perfect.  Tha 
proof  lay  in  the  glow  of  satisfaction  at  the  thing 
accomplished.  Materially,  there  was  nothing  to  com- 
plain about.  But  from  a  philosophic  standpoint  the 
satisfaction  was  not  absolute.  For  the  absolute  is 
finalit}^  and  there  is  no  finaUty  in  mundane  things. 
From  a  thing  so  finite  as  human  joy  eternal  law  decreed 
the  evolution  of  the  germs  of  fresh  desires.  There  had 
been  a  strange  sweetness  in  the  clasp  of  those  tiny 
arms.  How  much  sweeter  to  a  man  would  be  the 
clasp  if  the  arms  were  his  own  flesh  and  blood  ? 
Martin  was  shocked  by  the  suspicion  that  things  were 
not  going  right  with  him  as  a  human  being. 

The  pleasant  mass  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes  looming 
dimly  white  against  its  black  background  came  into 
view.  The  Hghts  in  an  uncurtained  and  unshuttered 
window,  above  the  terrace,  were  visible.  A  figure 
passed  rapidly  across  the  room  and  sent  drunkards 
and  adventures  and  curly-headed  five-year-olds  packing 
from  his  mind.  But  he  averted  his  eyes  and  walked 
on  and  came  to  the  Pont  de  Dronne,  and  then  halted 
to  light  a  cigarette.  The  frosty  silence  of  sharp 
moonlight  hung  over  the  town.  The  silver  shimmer 
reflected  from  reaches  of  water  and  from  tiled  roofs 
invested  it  with  unspeakable  beauty  and  peace.  A 
little  cold  caressing  wind  came  from  the  distant 
mountains,  seen  in  soft  outline.  Near  black  shelves  of 
rock  and  dark  mysteries  of  forest  and  masses  of  houses 
beyond  the  bridge-end  closed  other  horizons.  He 
remembered  his  first  impression  of  Brantome,  when  he 
had  sat  with  Corinna  on  the  terrace — a  mothering 
shelter  from  all  fierce  and  cruel  things. 

"  And  yet,"  thought  he,  as  he  puffed  his  cigarette 
smoke  in  the  clear  air,  "  beyond  this  httle  spot  Ues  a 
world  of  unceasing  endeavour  and  throbbing  pulses 
and  women  of  disturbing  beauty.  Such  a  woman  on 
her  meteoric  passage  from  one  sphere  of  glory  to 
another  has  flashed  before  my  eyes  to-night.     Why 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  187 

am  I  here  pursuing  an  avocation  which,  though 
honest,  is  none  the  less  greasy  and  obscure  ?  " 

Unable  to  solve  the  enigma,  he  sighed  and  threw  his 
cigarette,  which  had  gone  out  during  his  meditation, 
into  the  river.  A  patter  of  quick  footsteps  at  the 
approach  of  the  bridge  caused  him  to  turn  his  head, 
and  he  saw  emerge  from  the  gloom  into  the  moonlight 
a  tall,  fur-clad  figure  advancing  towards  him.  She 
gave  him  a  swift  look  of  recognition. 

"  Monsieur  Martin " 

He  raised  his  cap.     "  Good  evening.  Miss  Merriton." 

She  halted.  "  My  good  host  and  hostess  are  gone 
to  bed.  I  couldn't  sit  by  my  window  and  sentimen- 
tahze  through  the  glass  ;  so  I  came  out." 

"  It's  a  fine  night,"  said  Martin. 

"  It  is.  But  not  one  to  hang  about  on  a  windy 
bridge.  Come  for  a  little  walk,  if  you  have  time,  and 
protect  me  against  the  dangers  of  Brantdme." 

Go  for  a  walk  with  her  ?  Defend  her  from  dangers  ? 
Verily  he  would  go  through  the  universe  with  her  ! 
His  heart  thumped.  It  was  in  his  whirling  brain  to 
cry  :  "  Come  and  ride  with  me  throughout  the  world, 
and  the  more  dragons  I  can  meet  and  slay  in 
your  service,  the  more  worthy  shall  I  be  to  kiss 
the  hem  of  your  sacred  grey  velvet  dinner-gown." 
But  from  his  fundamental,  sober  common  sense  he 
replied : 

"  The  only  dangers  of  Brantome  at  this  time  of 
night  are  prudish  eyes  and  scandalous  tongues." 

She  drew  a  Httle  breath.  "  Thank  you,"  she  said. 
"  That's  frank  and  sensible.  I'm  always  forgetting 
that  France  isn't  New  York,  or  Paris  for  the  matter  of 
that,  where  one  can  do  as  one  Hkes.  I  don't  know 
provincial  France  a  httle  bit,  but  I  suppose,  for  red-hot 
gossip,  it  isn't  far  behind  a  pretty  little  New  England 
village.  Still,  can't  we  get  out  of  range,  somehow,  of 
the  eyes  ?  That  road  over  there — "  she  waved  a 
hand  in  the  direction  of  the  silent  high  road,  which 


i88  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Martin  had  lately  travelled — "  doesn't  seem  to  be 
encumbered  with  the  scandal-mongers  of  Brantome." 

He  laughed.     "  WiU  you  try  it  ?  " 

She  nodded  assent. 

They  set  forth  briskly.  The  gUmpse  into  her  nature 
dehghted  him.  She  appreciated  at  once  the  motive  of 
his  warning,  but  was  serenely  determined  to  have  her 
own  way. 

"  We  were  just  beginning  an  interesting  little  talk 
when  you  were  called  off,"  she  remarked. 

Martin  felt  himself  grow  red,  remembering  the 
tightly  pocketed  bagman  who  took  the  stage  while  he 
searched  for  eleemosynary  sous. 

"  My  profession  has  its  drawbacks,"  said  he. 

"  So  has  every  profession.  I've  got  a  friend  in 
America — I  have  met  him  two  or  three  times — who  is 
conductor  on  the  Twentieth  Century  Express  between 
New  York  and  Chicago.  He's  by  way  of  being  an 
astronomer,  and  the  great  drawback  of  his  profession 
is  that  he  has  no  time  to  sit  on  top  of  a  mountain  and 
look  at  stars.  The  drawback  of  yours  is  that  you 
can't  carry  on  pleasant  conversations  whenever  you 
like.  But  the  profession's  all  right,  unless  you're 
ashamed  of  it." 

"  But  why  should  I  be  ashamed  of  it  ?  "  asked 
Martin. 

"  I  don't  know.  Why  should  you  ?  My  father, 
who  was  the  son  of  a  New  England  parson " 

"  My  father  was  a  parson,"  said  Martin. 

"  Was  he  ?  Well,  that's  good.  We  both  come  of  a 
God-fearing  stock,  which  is  something  in  these  days. 
Anyway,  my  father,  in  order  to  get  through  college, 
waited  on  the  men  in  Hall  at  Harvard,  and  was  a 
summer  waiter  at  an  hotel  in  the  Adirondacks.  Of 
course  there  are  some  Americans  who  would  like  it  to 
be  thought  that  their  ancestors  brought  over  the 
family  estates  with  them  in  the  Mayflower.  But  we're 
not  hke  that.    Say,"  she  said,  after  a  few  steps  through 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  189 

the  sweet  keenness  of  the  moonUt  night,  "  have  you 
heard  lately  from  Corinna  ?  " 

He  had  not.  In  her  last  letter  to  him  she  had 
announced  her  departure  from  the  constricting  family 
circle  of  Wendlebury.     She  was  going  to  London. 

"  Where  she  woidd  have  a  chance  of  self-develop- 
ment," said  Lucilla,  with  a  laugh. 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  "  Martin  asked  in  simple 
surprise,  for  those  had  been  almost  Corinna's  own 
words. 

"  Wliat  else  would  she  go  to  London  for  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  said  Martin.     "  She  did  not  tell 


me." 


They  did  not  discuss  Corinna  further.  But  Martin 
felt  that  his  companion  had  formulated  his  own 
diagnosis  of  Corinna's  abiding  defect :  her  suspicion 
that  the  cosmic  scheme  centred  round  the  evolution  of 
Corinna  Hastings.  In  a  very  subtle  way  the  divinity 
had  established  implied  understandings  between  them. 
They  were  of  much  the  same  parentage.  In  her  own 
family  the  napkin  had  played  no  ignoble  part.  They 
were  at  one  in  their  little  confidential  estimate  of  their 
common  friend.  And  when  she  threw  back  her 
adorable  head  and  drew  a  deep  breath  and  said  :  "  It's 
just  lovely  here,"  he  felt  deliciously  near  her.  Deh- 
ciously  and  dangerously.  A  little  later,  as  they  came 
upon  the  rock-dwelHngs,  she  laid  a  fleeting  but  thriUing 
touch  on  his  arm. 

"  Wliat  in  the  world  are  those  houses  ?  " 
He  told  her.  He  described  the  hves  of  the  inhabi- 
tants. He  described,  on  the  way  back,  for  the  rocks 
marked  the  Umit  of  their  stroll,  his  adventure  with 
Boucabeille.  Ordinarily  shy,  and  if  not  tongue-tied  at 
least  unimaginative  in  speech,  he  now  found  vivid 
words  and  picturesque  images,  his  soul  set  upon 
repaying  her,  in  some  manner,  for  her  gracious  com- 
radeship. Her  smiles,  her  interest,  her  quick  sympathy, 
the  occasional  brush  of  her  furs  against  his  body,  as 


igo  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

she  leaned  to  listen,  intoxicated  him.  He  spoke  of 
France,  the  land  of  his  adoption,  and  the  spiritual 
France  that  no  series  of  hazardous  Governments  could 
impair,  with  rhapsodical  enthusiasm.  She  declared 
in  her  rich,  deep  voice,  as  though  carried  awa}?  by 
him  : 

"  I  love  to  hear  you  say  such  things.  It  is  splendid 
to  get  to  the  soul  of  a  people." 

Her  tone  implied  admiration  of  achievement.  He 
laughed  rather  foolishly,  in  besotted  happiness.  They 
had  reached  the  steep  road  leading  to  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes.  She  threw  a  hand  to  the  moonlit  bridge, 
where  they  had  met. 

"  Were  you  thinking  of  all  that  when  I  dragged  you 
off?" 

He  laughed  again.  "  No,"  he  confessed.  "  I  was 
wondering  what  on  earth  I  was  doing  there." 

"  I  think,"  said  she  softly,  "  you  have  just  given  me 
the  mot  de  I'enigme." 

In  the  vestibule  they  came  across  Bigourdin,  cigarette 
in  mouth,  sprawling,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
on  the  cane-bottomed  couch.  He  was  always  the 
last  to  retire,  a  fact  which  the  blissful  Martin  had 
forgotten.  Lucilla  sailed  up,  radiant  in  her  furs, 
the  flush  of  exercise  on  her  cheeks  visible  even 
under  the  dim  electric  Hght.  Bigourdin  raised  his 
ponderous  bulk. 

"  I  found  Monsieur  Martin  outside,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  commandeered  him  as  an  escort  round  the  neigh- 
bourhood. He  couldn't  refuse.  I  hope  I  haven't 
done  wrong." 

"  Martin  knows  more  about  Brantome,"  replied 
Bigourdin  courteously,  "  than  most  of  the  Brantomois 
themselves." 

Celeste  appeared  from  the  gloom  of  the  stairs. 
Lucilla,  after  an  idle  word  or  two,  retired.  Bigourdin 
closed  and  bolted  the  front  door.  To  do  that  he 
would  trust  nobody,  not  even  Martin.     Having  com- 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  191 

pleted  the  operation,  he  advanced  slowly  towards  his 
employee. 

"  Did  you  go  to  the  cafe  to-night  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Martin.  "  I  was  walking  with 
mademoiselle,  who,  as  she  may  have  told  you,  is  a 
friend  of  Mademoiselle  Corinne." 

"  Yes,  yes,  she  told  me  that,"  said  Bigourdin. 
"  There  is  no  need  of  explanations,  mon  ami.  But  I 
am  glad  you  did  not  go  to  the  cafe.  I  ought  to  have 
warned  you.  We  must  be  very  discreet  towards  the 
Viriots.  There  is  no  longer  any  marriage.  F61ise 
doesn't  want  it.  Her  father  has  formally  forbidden 
it.  I  have  no  desire  to  make  anybody  unhappy. 
But  there  it  is.  Fouiu,  le  manage.  And  I  haven't 
said  anything  as  yet  to  the  Viriots.  And,  again, 
I  can't  say  anything  to  Monsieur  Viriot  until  he  says 
something  to  me.  Voild  la  situation.  C'esi  d'une 
de'licatesse  extraordinaire.' ' 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  head  and  tried  to  grip 
the  half-inch  stubble. 

"  I  tell  you  this,  mon  cher  Martin,  because  you  know 
the  intimate  affairs  of  the  family.  So  " — he  shook  an 
impressive  finger — "  act  towards  the  Viriots,  father 
and  son,  as  if  you  knew  nothing,  nothing  at  all. 
Laissez-moi  faire." 

Martin  pledged  the  discretion  of  the  statues  in  the 
old  Alhambra  tale.  What  did  the  extraordinary 
delicacy  of  the  situation  between  Bigourdin  and  the 
Viriots  matter  to  him  ?  When  he  reached  his  room, 
he  laughed  aloud,  oblivious  of  Bigourdin,  the  Viriots 
and  poor  little  FeUse  who  (though  he  knew  it  not)  lay 
achingly  awake. 

At  last  a  woman,  a  splendid  wonder  of  a  woman,  a 
woman  with  the  resplendent  dignity  of  the  King's 
daughter  of  the  fairy  tales,  with  the  bewilderment  of 
beauty  of  face  and  of  form,  and  of  voice  Uke  the  cooing 
of  a  dove,  with  the  delicate  warm  sympathy  of  sheer 
woman,  had  come  into  his  Ufe. 


192  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

The  usually  methodical  Martin  threw  his  shirt  and 
trousers  across  the  room  and  walked  about  Uke  a 
lunatic  in  his  under-things,  until  a  sneeze  brought  him 
to  the  consciousness  of  wintry  cold. 

The  only  satisfying  sanction  of  romance  is  its  charm 
of  intimate  commonplace. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

They  had  further  talk  together  the  next  afternoon. 
A  lost  remnant  of  golden  autumn  freakishly  returned 
to  warm  the  December  air.  The  end  of  the  terrace 
caught  a  flood  of  sunshine  wherein  Lucilla  wrapped  in 
furs  and  rugs  and  seated  in  one  of  the  bent  wood 
rocking-chairs  brought  out  from  winter  quarters  for 
the  occasion,  had  established  herself  with  a  book. 
The  little  dog's  head  appeared  from  under  the  rug,  his 
strange  Mongolian  eyes  staring  unsympathetically  at  a 
draughty  world.  Martin  sauntered  out  to  breathe  the 
beauty  of  the  hour,  which  was  that  of  his  freedom.  He 
explained  the  fact  when  she  informed  him  that  Felise 
and  Bigourdin  had  both  left  her  a  few  minutes  before 
in  order  to  return  to  their  duties.  Martin  being  free, 
she  commanded  him  to  stay  and  entertain  her. 

"  If  I  were  a  good  American,"  she  said,  "  I  should 
be  racing  about  in  the  car  doing  the  sights  of  the 
neighbourhood  ;  but  to  sit  lazily  in  the  sun  is  too  great 
a  temptation.  Besides,"  she  added,  "  I  have  explored 
the  town  this  morning.  I  went  round  with  Monsieur 
Bigourdin." 

"  He  is  very  proud  of  Brantome,"  said  Martin. 

She  dismissed  Brantome.  "  I  have  lost  my  heart  to 
him.  He  is  so  big  and  comfortable  and  honest,  and 
he  talks  history  hke  a  poetical  professor  with  the 
manners  of  an  embassy  attache.  He's  unique  among 
landlords." 

"  I  love  Bigourdin,"  said  Martin,  "  but  the  type  is 
not  uncommon  in  these  old  inns  of  France — especially 
those  which  have  belonged  to  the  same  family  for 

193  N 


194  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

generations.  There  is  the  proprietor  of  the  Hotel  du 
Commerce  at  Perigueux,  for  instance,  who  makes 
pate  de  foie  gras  just  Hke  Bigourdin,  and  is  a  well- 
known  authority  on  the  prehistoric  antiquities  of  the 
Dordogne.  He  once  went  to  London,  for  a  day  ;  and 
what  do  you  think  was  his  object  ?  To  go  through 
the  collection  of  flint  instruments  at  the  Guildhall 
Museum.     He  told  me  so  himself." 

"  That's  all  very  interesting,"  said  Lucilla,  "  but  I'm 
sure  he's  nothing  like  Bigourdin.  He  can't  be.  And 
his  hotel  can't  be  Hke  this.  It's  the  queerest  hotel 
I've  ever  struck.  It's  run  by  such  unimaginable 
people.  I  think  I've  lost  my  heart  to  all  of  3^ou. 
There's  Bigourdin,  there's  Felise,  the  dearest  and  most 
delicate  little  soul  in  the  world,  the  daughter  of  a 
remarkable  mystery  of  a  man,  there  are  Baptiste  and 
Euphemie  and  Marie,  the  chambermaid,  who  seem  to 
exude  desire  to  fold  me  to  their  bosoms  whenever  I 
meet  them,  and  there  is  yourself,  an  English  University 
man,  an  exceedingly  competent  waiter  and  a  perfectly 
agreeable  companion." 

The  divinity,  crowned  with  a  little  sealskin  motoring 
toque  which  left  unhidden  the  fascination  of  her  up- 
brushed  hair,  cooed  on  deliciously.  The  knees  of 
Martin,  leaning  against  the  parapet,  became  as  water. 
He  had  a  crazy  desire  to  kneel  at  her  feet  on  the 
concrete  floor  of  the  terrace.  Then  he  noticed  that 
between  her  feet  and  the  cold  concrete  floor  there  was 
no  protecting  footstool.  He  fetched  one  from  the 
dining-room  and  had  the  felicity  of  placing  it  for  her 
and  readjusting  the  rugs. 

"  I  suppose  you're  not  going  to  be  a  waiter  here  all 
your  life,"  she  said. 

He  signified  that  the  hypothesis  was  correct. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

It  was  in  his  awakened  imagination  to  say  : 

"  Follow  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,"  but  common 
sense  replied  that  he  did  not  know.     He  had  made  no 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  195 

plans.  She  suggested  that  he  might  travel  about  the 
wide  world.  He  breathed  an  inward  sigh.  Why  not 
the  starry  firmament  ?  Why  not,  rainbow-winged  and 
golden  spear  in  hand,  swoop,  a  bright  archangel,  from 
planet  to  planet  ? 

"  You  ought  to  see  Egypt,"  she  said,  "  and  feel  what 
a  speck  of  time  you  are  when  the  centuries  look  down 
on  you.  It's  wholesome.  I'm  going  early  in  the  New 
Year.  I  go  there  and  try  to  paint  the  desert ;  and  then 
I  sit  down  and  cry — which  is  wholesome  too — for  me." 

Before  Martin's  inner  vision  floated  a  blurred  picture 
of  camels  and  pyramids  and  sand  and  oleographic 
sunsets.  He  said,  infatuated  :  "  I  would  give  my  soul 
to  go  to  Egypt." 

"  Egypt  is  well  worth  a  soul,"  she  laughed. 

Words  and  reply  were  driven  from  his  head  by  the 
sight  of  a  great  splotch  of  grease  on  the  leg  of  his 
trousers.  A  dress-suit  worn  daily  for  two  or  three 
months  in  pursuit  of  a  waiter's  avocation  does  not 
look  its  best  in  stark  sunlight.  Self-conscious,  he 
crossed  his  legs,  as  he  leaned  against  the  parapet,  in 
order  to  hide  the  patch.  Then  he  noticed  that  one  of 
the  studs  of  his  shirt  had  escaped  from  the  frayed  and 
blackened  buttonhole.  Again  he  felt  her  humorous 
eyes  upon  him.  For  a  few  moments  he  dared  not 
meet  them.  When  he  did  look  up  he  found  them 
fixed  caressingly  on  the  Pekinese  spaniel,  which  had 
slipped  upon  its  back  in  the  hope  of  a  rubbed  stomach, 
and  was  waving  feathery  paws  in  pursuit  of  her  finger. 
A  moment's  reflection  brought  heart  of  grace.  Greasy 
suit  and  untidy  studhole  must  have  been  obvious  to 
her  from  his  first  appearance  on  the  terrace — indeed 
they  must  have  been  obvious  while  he  had  waited  on 
her  at  dejeuner.  Her  invitation  to  converse  was  proof 
that  she  disregarded  outer  trappings,  that  she  recog- 
nized the  man  beneath  the  soup-stained  raiment.  He 
uncrossed  his  legs  and  stood  upright.  Then  he  remem- 
bered her  remark. 


196  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  The  question  is,"  said  he,  "  whether  my  soul 
would  fetch  enough  to  provide  me  with  a  ticket  to 
Egypt." 

She  smiled  lazily.  The  sunlight  being  full  on  her 
face,  he  noticed  that  her  eyelashes  were  brown. 
Wondrous  discovery  ! 

"  Anyhow,"  she  replied,  "  where  there's  a  soul 
there's  a  way." 

She  took  a  cigarette  from  a  gold  case  that  lay  on 
the  Httle  iron  table  beside  her.  Martin  sprang  forward 
with  a  match.     She  thanked  him  graciously. 

"  It  isn't  money  that  does  the  real  things,"  she  said, 
after  a  few  meditative  puffs.  "  To  hear  an  American 
say  so  must  sound  strange  to  your  English  ears.  You 
believe,  I  know,  that  Americans  make  money  an 
Almighty  God  that  can  work  any  miracles  over  man 
and  natural  forces  that  you  please.  But  it  isn't  so. 
The  miracles,  such  as  they  are,  that  America  has 
performed,  have  been  due  to  the  naked  soul.  Money 
has  come  as  an  accident  or  an  accretion,  and  has 
helped  things  along.  We  have  a  saying  which  you 
may  have  heard  :  '  Money  talks.'  That's  just  it.  It 
talks.  But  the  soul  has  had  to  act  first.  Money  had 
nothing  to  do  with  American  Independence.  It  was 
the  soul  of  George  Washington.  It  wasn't  money  that 
invented  the  phonograph.  It  was  the  soul  of  the  train 
newsboy  Edison.  It  wasn't  money  that  brought  into 
being  the  original  Cornelius  Vanderbilt.  It  was  the 
soul  of  the  old  ferryman  that  divined  the  power  of 
steam  both  on  sea  and  land  a  hundred  years  ago,  and 
accidentally  or  incidentally  or  logically  or  what  you 
please,  founded  the  Vanderbilt  fortune.  I  could  go  on 
for  ever  with  instances  from  my  own  country — 
instances  that  every  schoolchild  knows.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  world  the  Almighty  Dollar  may  seem  to  rule 
America — but  every  thinking  American  knows  in  his 
heart  of  hearts  that  the  Almighty  DoUar  is  but  an  acci- 
dental symbol  of  the  Almighty  Soul  of  Man.     And  it's 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  197 

the  soul  that  we're  proud  of,  and  that  keeps  the  nation 
together.  All  this  more  or  less  was  at  the  back  of  my 
mind  when  I  said  where  there's  a  soul  there's  a  way.." 

As  this  httle  speech  progressed  her  face  lost  its 
expression  of  serene  and  humorous  contentment  wiljh 
the  world,  and  grew  eager,  and  her  eyes  shone  and  her 
voice  quickened.  He  regarded  her  as  some  faUieant 
Homeric  warrior  might  have  regarded  the  goddess 
who  had  descended  cloud-haste  from  Olympus  to 
exhort  him  to  noble  deeds.  The  exhortation  fluttered 
both  pride  and  pulses.  He  saw  in  her  a  woman 
capable  of  great  things,  and  she  had  appealed  to  him 
as  a  man  also  capable. 

"  You  have  pointed  me  out  the  way  to  Egypt,"  he 
said. 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Lucilla.  "  Look  me  up  when  you 
get  there,"  she  added,  with  a  smile.  "  It  seems  a  big 
place,  but  it  isn't.  Cairo,  Luxor,  Assouan — and  at 
any  rate  the  Semiramis  Hotel  at  Cairo." 

And  then  she  began  to  talk  of  that  wonderful  land, 
of  the  mystery  of  the  desert,  the  inscrutable  gods  of 
granite,  and  Karnac  brooding  on  the  ghost  of  Thebes. 
She  spoke  from  wide  knowledge  and  sympathy.  An 
aUusion  here  and  there  indicated  how  true  a  touch  she 
had  on  far  divergent  aspects  of  life.  Apart  from  her 
radiant  adorableness,  which  held  him  captive,  she 
possessed  a  mind  which  stimulated  his  own,  so  long 
lain  sluggish.  He  had  not  met  before  the  highly 
educated  woman  of  the  world.  Instinctively  he  con- 
trasted her  with  Corinna,  who  in  the  first  days  of  their 
pilgrimage  had  dazzled  him  with  her  attainments. 
She  had  a  quick  intelligence,  but  in  any  matter  of 
knowledge  was  soon  out  of  her  depth ;  yet  she 
exhibited  singular  adroitness  in  regaining  the  shallows 
where  she  found  safety  in  abiding.  Lucilla,  on  the 
other  hand,  swam  serenely  out  into  deep  blue  water. 
From  every  point  of  view  she  was  a  goddess  of  bewilder- 
ing attributes. 


igS  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

After  a  while  she  shivered  sHghth^  The  sun  had 
disappeared  behind  a  corner  of  the  hotel.  Greyness 
overspread  the  terrace.  The  glory  of  the  short  winter 
afternoon  had  departed.  She  rose,  Hchogabalus,  also 
shivering,  under  her  arm.     Martin  held  the  rugs. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  she,  "  whether  you  could  possibly 
send  up  some  tea  to  my  quaint  little  salon  ?  Perhaps 
you  might  induce  Felise  to  join  me." 

That  was  all  the  talk  he  had  with  her.  In  the 
evening  the  arrival  of  an  English  motor  party  kept 
him  busy,  both  during  dinner  and  afterwards  ;  for  not 
only  did  they  desire  coffee  and  liqueurs  served  in  the 
vestibule,  but  they  gave  indications  to  his  experienced 
judgment  of  requiring  relays  of  whiskies  and  sodas 
until  bedtime.  Again  he  did  not  visit  the  Cafe  de 
rUnivers. 

The  next  morning  she  started  for  the  Riviera.  She 
was  proceeding  thither  via  Toulouse,  Carcassonne, 
Narbonne  and  the  coast.  To  Martin's  astonishment 
Felise  was  accompanying  her,  on  a  visit  for  ten  days 
or  a  fortnight  to  the  South.  It  appeared  that  the 
matter  had  been  arranged  late  the  previous  evening. 
Lucilla  had  made  the  proposal,  swept  away  difficulty 
after  difficulty  with  her  air  of  a  smiling  but  irresistible 
providence,  and  left  Bigourdin  and  Felise  not  a  leg 
save  sheer  churlishness  to  stand  on.  Clothes  ?  She 
had  ten  times  the  amount  she  needed.  The  perils  of 
the  lonely  and  tedious  return  train  journey  ?  Never 
could  Felise  accomplish  it.  Bigourdin  turned  up  an 
Indicaieur  des  Chemins  de  Fer.  There  were  changes, 
there  were  waits.  Communications  were  arranged, 
with  diabolical  cunning,  not  to  correspond.  Perhaps 
it  was  to  confound  the  Germans  in  case  of  invasion. 
As  far  as  he  could  make  out  it  would  take  seventy-four 
hours,  forty-three  minutes  to  get  from  Monte  Carlo  to 
Brantome.  It  was  far  simpler  to  go  from  Paris  to 
Moscow,  which  as  every  one  knew  was  the  end  of  the 


THE  WONDERrUL  YEAR  199 

world.     Felisp  would  starve.     Felise  would  perish  of 
cold.     Felise    would    get    the    wrong    train    and    find 
herself  at  Copenhagen  or  Amsterdam  or  Naples,  where 
she  wouldn't  be  able  to  speak  the  language.     Lucilla 
laughed.     There  was  such  a  thing  as  L'Agence  Cook, 
which  moulded  the  Indicateur  des  Chemins  de  Fer  to 
its  will.     She  would  engage  a  man  from  Cook's,  before 
whose  brass-buttoned  coat   and   a   gold-lettered  band 
on  cap  the  Indicateur  would  fall  to  pieces,  to  transfer 
Felise  personally,  b}'-  easy  stages,  from  house  to  house. 
Felise  had  pleaded  her  uncle's  need.     Lucilla,  in  the 
most   charming   way   imaginable,    had   deprecated   as 
impossible  any  such  colossal  sellishness  on  the  part  of 
Monsieur  Bigourdin.     Overawed  by  the  Olympian,  he 
had  peremptorily  ordered  Felise  to  retire  and  pack  her 
trunk.     Then,  obeying  the  dictates  of  his  sound  sense 
he   had   asked   Lucilla   what   object   she   had   in   her 
magnificent  invitation.     His  little  girl,  said  he,  would 
acquire  a  taste  for  celestial  things  which  never  after- 
wards would  she  be  in  a  position  to  gratify.     To  which 
Lucilla  : 

"  How  do  you  know  she  won't  be  able  to  gratify 
them  ?  A  girl  of  her  beauty,  charm,  and  character, 
together  with  a  little  knowledge  of  the  world  of  men, 
women,  and  things,  is  in  a  position  to  command  what- 
ever she  chooses.  She  has  the  beauty,  charm,  and 
character,  and  I  want  to  add  the  little  knowledge.  I 
want  to  see  a  lovely  human  flower  expand  " — she  had 
a  graceful  trick  of  restrained  gesture  which  impressed 
Bigourdin.  "  I  want  to  give  a  bruised  little  girl  whom 
I've  taken  to  my  heart  a  good  time.  For  myself,  it's 
some  sort  of  way  of  finding  a  sanction  for  my  otherwise 
useless  existence." 

And  Bigourdin,  clutching  at  his  bristles,  had  plucked 
forth  no  adequately  inspired  reply.  The  will  of  the 
New  World  had  triumphed  over  that  of  the  Old. 

All  the  staff  of  the  hotel  witnessed  the  departure. 

"  Monsieur  Martin,"  said  FeHse  in  French,  about  ta 


200  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

step  into  the  great  car,  a  medley,  to  her  mind,  of  fur 
rugs  and  dark  golden  dogs  and  grey  cats  and  maids 
and  chauffeurs  and  innumerable  articles  of  luggage, 
"  I  have  scarcely  had  two  words  with  you.  I  no 
longer  know  when  I  have  my  head.  But  look  after 
my  uncle,  and  see  that  the  laundress  does  not  return 
the  table-hnen  black." 

"  Bien,  Mademoiselle  Felise,"  said  Martin, 

Lucilla,  pink  and  white  and  leopard-coated,  shook 
hands  with  Bigourdin,  thanked  him  for  his  hospitaUty 
and  reassured  him  as  to  the  perfect  safety  of  Felise. 
She  stepped  into  the  car.  Martin  arranged  the  rugs 
and  closed  the  door.     She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  We  meet  in  Egypt,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  As 
the  car  drove  off,  she  turned  round  and  blew  a  gracious 
kiss  to  the  little  group. 

"  Voild  tme  petite  sorciere  d'Anuricaine,"  said  Bigour- 
din. "  Pif !  Paf !  and  away  goes  Fehse  on  her 
broomstick." 

Martin  stood  shocked  at  hearing  his  divinity 
maligned  as  a  witch. 

"  Here  am  I,"  continued  Bigourdin,  "  between 
pretty  sheets.  I  have  no  longer  a  housekeeper,  seeing 
that  Madame  Thuillier  rendered  herself  unbearable. 
However  " — he  shrugged  his  shoulders  resignedly — 
"  we  must  get  on  by  ourselves  as  best  we  can.  The 
trip  will  be  good  for  the  health  of  Felise.  It  will  also 
improve  her  mind.  She  will  stay  in  many  hotels  and 
observe  their  organization." 

From  the  moment  that  Martin  returned  to  his  duties 
he  felt  unusual  lack  of  zeal  in  their  performance. 
Deprived  of  the  Celestial  Presence,  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes  seemed  to  be  stricken  with  a  blight.  The 
rooms  had  grown  smaller  and  barer,  the  furniture 
more  common,  and  the  terrace  stretched  outside  a 
bleak  concrete  wilderness.  Often  he  stood  on  the 
bridge  and  repeated  the  question  of  the  memorable 
evening.     What  was  he  doing  there  when  the  world 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  201 

outside  was  illuminated  by  a  radiant  woman  ?  Sud- 
denly Bigourdin,  Felise,  the  circle  of  the  Caf6  de 
rUnivers  became  aHen  in  speech  and  point  of  view. 
He  upbraided  himself  for  base  ingratitude.  He  realized, 
more  from  casual  talk  with  Bigourdin  than  from  sense 
of  something  wanting,  the  truth  of  Felise's  last  remark. 
In  the  usual  intimate  order  of  things  she  would  have 
related  her  experiences  of  Chartres  and  Paris,  in  which 
he  would  have  manifested  a  more  than  brotherly 
interest.  During  her  previous  absence  he  had  thought 
much  of  Felise,  and  had  anticipated  her  return  with  a 
throb  of  the  heart.  The  dismissal  of  Lucien  Viriot, 
much  as  he  admired  the  gallant  ex-cuirassier,  pleased 
him  mightily.  He  had  shared  Bigourdin's  excitement 
over  the  escape  from  Chartres,  over  Fortinbras's 
prohibition  of  the  marriage,  over  her  return  in  motoring 
state.  When  she  had  freed  herself  from  Bigourdin's 
embrace  and  turned  to  greet  him,  the  clasp  of  her  two 
little  hands  and  the  sight  of  her  eager  little  face  had 
thrilled  him.  He  had  told  her,  as  though  she  belonged 
to  liim,  of  the  things  he  knew  she  was  dying  to  hear.  .  .  . 
And  then  the  figure  of  the  American  girl  with  her 
stately  witchery  had  walked  through  the  door  of  the 
salU  a  manger  into  his  Ufe. 

The  days  went  on  dully,  shortening  and  darkening 
as  they  neared  Christmas.  Felise  wrote  letters  to  her 
uncle,  artlessly  filled  with  the  magic  of  the  South. 
Two  letters  from  Lucilla  Merriton  decreed  extension  of 
her  guest's  visit.  Bigourdin  began  to  lose  his  genial 
view  of  existence.  He  talked  gloomily  of  France's 
unreadiness  for  war.  There  were  thieves  and  traitors 
in  the  Cabinet.  Whole  army  corps  were  notoriously 
deficient  in  equipment  and  transport.  It  was  enough, 
he  declared,  to  make  a  patriotic  Frenchman  commit 
protesting  suicide  in  the  lobby  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies.  And  what  news  had  Martin  received  of 
Mademoiselle  Corinne  ?  Martin  knew  little  save  that 
she  was  engaged  in  some  mysterious  work  in  London. 


202  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  But  what  is  she  doing  ?  "  cried  Bigourdin  at  last. 

"  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea,"  rephed  Martin. 

"  Dites  done,  mon  ami,"  said  Bigourdin,  the  gloom 
and  anxiety  deepening  on  his  brow.  "  You  do  not 
think,  by  any  chance" — he  hesitated  before  breathing 
the  terrible  surmise — "  you  do  not  think  she  has  made 
herself  a  suffragette  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  "  replied  Martin.  "  With  Corinna 
all  things  are  possible." 

"  Except  to  take  command  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes," 
said  Bigourdin,  and  he  sighed  vastly. 

One  evening  he  said  :  "  My  good  friend  Martin,  I 
am  feeling  upset.  Instead  of  going  to  the  Cafe  de 
rUnivers,  let  us  have  a  glass  of  the  vieille  fine  du 
Brigadier  in  the  petit  salon,  where  I  have  ordered 
Marie  to  make  a  good  fire." 

The  old  Liqueur  Brandy  of  the  Brigadier  was 
literally,  from  the  market  standpoint,  worth  its  weight 
in  gold.  In  the  seventies  Bigourdin's  father,  during 
the  course  of  reparations,  had  discovered,  in  a  blocked 
and  forgotten  cellar,  three  almost  evaporated  casks 
bearing  the  inscription  just  decipherable  beneath  the 
mildew  in  Brigadier-General  Bigourdin's  old  war-dog 
handwriting  :  "  Cognac.  1812."  His  grandson,  who 
had  lost  a  leg  and  an  arm  in  1870,  knew  what  was 
due  to  the  brandy  of  the  Grande  Armee.  Instead  of 
filling  up  the  casks  with  newer  brandy  and  selling  the 
result  at  extravagant  prices,  he  reverently  bottled  the 
remaining  contents  of  the  three  casks,  and  on  each 
bottle  stuck  a  printed  label  setting  forth  the  great 
history  of  the  brandy,  and  stored  the  lot  in  a  dry  bin 
which  he  charged  his  son  to  venerate  as  one  of  the 
sacred  depositaries  of  France  in  the  family  of  Bigourdin. 

Now  in  any  first-class  restaurant  in  Paris,  Monte 
Carlo,  Aix-les-Bains,  you  can  get  Napoleon  Brandy. 
The  bottle,  sealed  with  the  stiU  mind-stirring  initial 
"  N  "  on  the  neck,  is  uncorked  solemnly  before  you 
by    the    silver-chained    functionary.     It    is    majestic 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  203 

liquid.  But  not  a  drop  of  the  distillation  of  the 
Napoleonic  grape  is  there.  The  casks  once  containing 
it  have  been  filled  and  refilled  for  a  hundred  years. 
For  brandy,  unlike  port,  does  not  mature  in  bottle. 
The  best  1812  brandy  bottljd  that  year  would  be 
to-day  the  same  as  it  was  then.  But  if  it  has  remained 
for  over  sixty  years  in  cask,  you  shall  have  a  precious 
fluid  such  as  it  is  given  to  few  kings  or  even  emperors 
to  taste.  I  doubt  whether  there  is  a  hundred  gallons 
of  it  in  the  wide,  wide  world. 

The  proposal  to  open  a  bottle  of  the  Old  Brandy  of 
the  Brigadier  portended  a  state  of  affairs  so  momentous 
that  Martin  gaped  at  the  back  of  Bigourdin  on  his 
way  to  the  cellar.  On  the  occasion  of  what  high 
solemnity  the  last  had  been  uncorked,  Martin  did  not 
know  :  certainly  not  on  the  occasion  of  the  dinner  of 
ceremony  to  the  Viriots,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
father  of  the  prospective  bridegroom  was  marchmid  de 
vin  en  gros  and  was  expected  by  Bigourdin  to  produce 
at  the  return  dinner  some  of  his  famous  Chambertin. 

"  Come,"  said  Bigourdin,  cobwebbed  bottle  in  hand, 
and  Martin  followed  him  into  the  prim  little  salon. 
From  a  cupboard  whose  glass  doors  were  veiled  with 
green  pleated  silk,  he  produced  two  mighty  quart 
goblets  which  he  set  down  on  a  small  table,  and  into 
each  poured  about  a  sherry-glass  of  the  precious 
brandy. 

"  Like  this,"  he  explained,  "we  do  not  lose  the 
perfume." 

Martin  sipped  ;  it  was  soft  like  wine,  and  the  deUcate 
flavour  fingered  deliciously  on  tongue  and  palate. 

"  I  like  to  think,"  said  Bigourdin,  "  that  it  contains 
the  soul  of  the  Grande  Arme'e." 

They  sat  in  stiff  arm-chairs  covered  in  stamped 
velvet,  one  on  each  side  of  the  wood  fire. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Bigourdin,  lighting  a  cigarette, 
"  I  am  not  as  contented  with  the  world  as  perhaps  I 
ought  to  be.     I  had  an  interview  with  Monsieur  Viriot 


204  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

to-day  which  distressed  me  a  great  deal.  The  two 
famihes  have  been  friends,  and  the  Viriots  have  suppHed 
us  with  wine  on  an  honourable  understanding  for  genera- 
tions. But  the  understanding  was  purely  mercantile, 
and  did  not  involve  the  sacrifice  of  a  virgin.  Le  Pere 
Viriot  seems  to  think  that  it  did.  I  exposed  to  him 
the  disinclination  of  Felise,  and  the  impossibility  of 
obtaining  that  which  is  necessary,  according  to  the 
law,  the  consent  of  her  parents.  He  threw  the  parents 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven.  He  conducted  himself 
like  a  man  bereft  of  reason.  Always  beware  of  the 
obstinacy  of  a  fiat-headed  man." 

"  What  was  the  result  of  the  interview  ?  "  asked 
Martin. 

"  We  quarrelled  for  good  and  all.  We  quitted  each 
other  as  enemies.  He  sent  round  his  clerk  this  after- 
noon with  his  account,  and  I  paid  it  in  cash  down  to 
the  last  centime.  And  now  I  shall  have  to  go  to  the 
Maison  Prunier  of  Perigueux,  who  are  incapable  of  any 
honourable  understanding,  and  will  try  to  supply  me 
with  abominable  beverages  which  will  poison  and 
destroy  my  clientele." 

Recklessly  he  finished  his  brandy  and  poured  himself 
out  another  portion.  Then  he  passed  the  bottle  to 
Martin. 

"  Sers-toi,"  said  he,  using  for  the  first  time  the 
familiar  second  person  singular.  Martin  was  startled, 
but  said  nothing.  Then  he  remembered  that  Bigourdin, 
contrary  to  his  usual  abstemious  habits,  had  been 
supplied  at  dinner  with  a  cradled  quart  of  old  Corton, 
which  awakens  generosity  of  sentiment  towards  their 
fellows  in  the  hearts  of  men. 

"  Mon  brave,"  he  remarked,  after  a  pause,  "  my 
heart  is  full  of  problems  which  I  cannot  resolve,  and 
I  have  no  one  to  turn  to  but  yourself." 

"  I  appreciate  your  saying  so  very  much,"  replied 
Martin  ;  "  but  why  not  consult  our  wise  and  experi- 
enced friend  Fortinbras  ?  " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  205 

"  Voild,"  cried  Bigourdin,  waving  a  great  hand. 
"  It  is  he  who  sets  me  the  greatest  problem  of  all. 
Why  do  you  think  I  have  let  FeHse  go  away  with  that 
pretty  whirlwind  of  an  American  ?  "  Martin  stiffened, 
not  knowing  whether  this  was  a  disparagement  of 
Lucilla ;  but  Bigourdin,  heedless,  continued :  "It  is 
because  she  is  very  unhappy,  and  it  is  out  of  human 
power  to  give  her  consolation.  You  are  a  gentleman 
and  a  man  of  honour.  I  will  repose  in  you  a  sacred 
confidence.  But  that  which  I  am  going  to  tell  you, 
you  will  swear  never  to  reveal  to  a  Hving  soul." 

Martin  gave  his  word.  Bigourdin,  without  touching 
on  long  past  sorrows,  described  the  visit  of  Felise  to 
the  Rue  Maugrabine. 

"  It  was  my  sister,"  said  he,  "  for  years  sunk  in  the 
degradation  of  drunkenness — so  rare  among  French- 
women— it  is  madness,  que  veux-tu  ?  Often  she  has 
gone  away  to  be  cured,  mth  no  effect.  I  have  urged 
my  brother-in-law  to  put  her  away  permanently  in  a 
maison  de  santc  ;  but  he  has  not  been  willing.  It  was 
he,  he  maintains,  who  in  far-off  unhappy  days,  when, 
pauvre  garcon,  he  Hfted  his  elbow  too  often  himself, 
gave  her  the  taste  for  alcohol.  For  that  reason  he 
treats  her  with  consideration  and  even  tenderness. 
C'est  beau.  And  he  himself,  you  must  have  remarked, 
has  not  drunk  anything  but  water  for  many  years." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Martin,  and  his  mind  went  back 
to  his  first  meeting  with  Fortinbras  in  the  lonely  Petit 
Cornichon,  when  the  latter  imbibed  such  prodigious 
quantities  of  raspberry  syrup  and  water.  It  seemed 
very  long  ago.     Bigourdin  went  on  talking. 

"  And  so,"  said  he  at  last,  "  you  see  the  unhappy 
situation  which  Fortinbras,  like  a  true  Don  Quixote, 
has  arranged  between  himself  and  Felise.  She  retains 
the  sacred  ideal  of  her  mother,  but  holds  in  horror, 
very  naturally,  the  father  whom  she  has  always 
adored.  It  is  a  bleeding  wound  in  her  innocent  httle 
soul.    What  can  I  do  ?  " 


2o6  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Martin  was  deeply  moved  by  the  pitifulness  of  the 
tale.  Poor  Httle  Felise,  how  much  she  must  have 
suffered. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,"  said  he,  "  to  sacrifice  a 
phantom  mother — for  that's  what  it  comes  to — for  the 
sake  of  a  living  father  ?  " 

Bigourdin  agreed,  but  Fortinbras  expressly  forbade 
such  a  disclosure.  In  this  he  sympathized  with 
Fortinbras,  although  the  mother  was  his  own  flesh  and 
blood.  Truly  he  had  not  been  lucky  in  sisters — one  a 
higote  and  the  other  an  alcoolique.  He  expressed 
sombre  views  as  to  the  family  of  which  he  was  the 
sole  male  survivor.  Seeing  that  his  wife  had  given 
him  no  children,  and  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to 
marrv  one  of  the  damsels  of  the  neighbourhood,  he 
bewailed  the  end  of  the  good  old  name  of  Bigourdin. 
But  perhaps  it  were  best.  For  who  could  tell,  if  he 
begat  a  couple  of  children,  whether  one  would  not  be 
afflicted  with  alcohohc  and  the  other  wdth  religious 
mania  ?  To  beget  brave  children  for  France,  a  man — 
nom  de  Dieu ! — must  put  forth  all  the  splendour  and 
audacity  of  his  soul.  How  could  he  do  so  when  the 
only  woman  who  could  conjure  up  within  him  the  said 
splendour  and  audacity  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  him  ?  To  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  was  a  droll 
affair.  But  if  you  loved  her,  you  loved  her,  however 
little  she  responded.  It  was  a  species  of  malady  which 
must  be  supported  with  courageous  resignation.  He 
sighed  and  poured  out  a  third  glass  of  the  brandy  of 
the  Brigadier.  Martin  did  likewise,  thinking  of  the 
woman  whose  white  fingers  held  the  working  of  the 
splendour  and  audacity  of  the  soul  of  Martin  Overshaw. 
He  felt  drawn  into  brotherly  sympathy  with  Bigourdin  ; 
but,  for  the  life  of  him,  he  could  not  see  how  anybody 
could  be  dependent  for  soul  provisions  of  splendour 
and  audacity  upon  Corinna  Hastings.  The  humbly 
aspiring  fellow  moved  him  to  patronizing  pity. 

Martin  strove  to  comfort  him  with  specious  words  of 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  207 

hope.  But  Bigourdin's  mental  condition  was  that  of 
a  man  to  whom  wallowing  in  despair  alone  brings 
consolation.  He  had  been  suffering  from  a  gathering 
avalanche  of  misfortunes.  First  had  come  his  rejec- 
tion, followed  by  the  unsatisfied  longing  of  the  devout 
lover.  It  cannot  be  denied,  however,  that  he  had 
borne  himself  gallantly.  Then  the  fading  of  his  dream 
of  the  Viriot  alliance  had  filled  him  with  dismay. 
Fehse's  adventure  in  the  Rue  Maugrabine,  and  its 
resulting  situation,  had  caused  him  sleepless  nights, 
Lucilla  Merriton  had  taken  him  up  between  her  fingers 
and  twiddled  him  round,  thereby  depriving  him  of 
volition,  and,  having  put  him  down  in  a  state  of  bewil- 
derment, had  carried  off  Fehse.  And  to-day,  last 
accretion  that  set  the  avalanche  roUing,  his  old  friend 
Viriot  had  called  him  a  breaker  of  honourable  under- 
standings, and  had  sent  a  clerk  with  his  bill.  The 
avalanche  swept  him  into  the  Slough  of  Despond, 
wherein  he  lay  solacing  himself  with  hopeless  imaginings 
and  the  Old  Brandy  of  the  Brigadier.  But  human 
instinct  made  him  beckon  to  Martin,  call  him  "  tu,"  and 
bid  him  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  quagmire,  and  stretch 
out  a  helping  hand.  He  also  had  in  view  a  subtle  and 
daring  scheme. 

"  Mon  brave  ami,"  said  he,  "  when  I  die  " — his 
broad  face  assumed  an  expression  of  infinite  woe,  and 
he  spoke  as  though  he  were  seventy — "  what  will 
become  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes  ?  FeUse  will  benefit 
principally.  Men  entendu,  by  my  will  ;  but  she  will 
marry  one  of  these  days,  and  will  follow  her  husband, 
who  probably  will  not  want  to  concern  himself  with 
hotel-keeping."  He  glanced  shrewdly  at  Martin,  who 
regarded  him  with  unmoved  placidity.  "  To  think 
that  the  hotel  will  be  sold,  and  all  its  honourable 
traditions  changed,  would  break  my  heart.  I  should 
not  Hke  to  die  with  such  a  solution  of  continuity." 

"  But,  my  dear  Bigourdin,"  said  Martin,  "  what  are 
you  thinking  of  ?     You're  a  young  man.     You're  not 


2o8  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

stricken  with  a  fatal  malady.  You're  not  going  to 
die.  You  have  twenty,  thirty,  perhaps  forty  years 
before  you  in  the  course  of  which  all  kinds  of  things 
may  happen." 

Bigourdin  leant  forward  and  stretched  out  his  great 
arm  across  the  fireplace  until  his  fingers  touched 
Martin's  knee. 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  going  to  happen  ?  War  is 
going  to  happen.  Next  year — the  year  after — five 
years  hence — que  sais-je,  mot  ? — but  it  has  to  come. 
All  these  pacifists  and  anti-militarists  are  either 
imbeciles  or  traitors — those  that  are  not  dreaming 
madhouse  dreams  of  the  millennium  are  filling  their 
pockets — of  the  latter  there  are  some  in  high  places. 
There  is  going  to  be  war,  I  tell  you,  and  many  people 
are  going  to  die.  And  when  the  bugle  sounds  I  put 
on  my  old  uniform  and  march  to  the  cannon's  mouth 
Uke  my  fathers  before  me.  And  why  shouldn't  I  die, 
like  my  brother  in  Morocco  ?     Tell  me  that  ?  " 

In  spite  of  his  intimacy  with  the  sturdy  thought  of 
provincial  France,  Martin  could  not  realize  how  the 
vague  imminence  of  war  could  affect  so  closely  the 
personal  life  of  an  individual  Frenchman. 

"  No  matter,"  said  Bigourdin,  after  a  short  dis- 
cussion. "  I  have  to  die  some  day.  It  was  not  to 
argue  about  the  probable  date  of  my  decease  that  I 
have  asked  you  to  honour  me  with  this  special  con- 
versation. I  have  expressed  to  you  quite  frankly  the 
motives  which  actuate  me  at  the  present  moment. 
I  have  done  so  in  order  that  you  may  understand  why 
I  desire  to  make  you  a  business  proposition." 

"  A  business  proposition  ?  "  echoed  Martin. 

"  Oui,  nion  ami." 

He  replenished  Martin's  enormous  beaker  and  his 
own  and  gave  the  toast. 

"  A  I' Entente  Cordiale — between  our  nations  and 
between  our  two  selves." 

Lest  the  uninitiated  may  regard  this  sitting  as  a 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  209 

dram-drinking  orgy,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  in 
such  brandy  as  that  of  the  Brigadier,  strength  has 
melted  into  the  gracious  mellowness  of  old  age.  The 
fiery  spirit  that  the  cantiniere  or  the  vivandiere  of  1812 
served  out  of  her  little  waist-slung  barrel  to  the  warriors 
of  the  Grande  Armee  was  now  but  a  fragrant  memory 
of  battles  long  ago. 

"  A  business  proposition,"  repeated  Bigourdin,  and 
forthwith  began  to  develop  it.  It  was  the  very 
simplest  business  proposition  in  the  world.  Why 
should  not  Martin  invest  all  or  part  of  his  little  heritage 
in  the  century-old  and  indubitably  flourishing  business 
of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes,  and  become  a  partner  with 
Bigourdin  ?  Lawyers  would  arrange  the  business 
details.  In  this  way,  whether  Bigourdin  met  with  a 
gory  death  within  the  next  two  or  three  years,  or  a 
peaceful  one  a  quarter  of  a  century  hence,  he  would  be 
reassured  that  there  would  be  no  solution  of  con- 
tinuity in  the  honourable  tradition  of  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes. 

It  was  then  that  Martin  fully  understood  the  solem- 
nity of  the  occasion — the  petit  salon  with  fire  specially 
lit,  the  Brigadier  brandy,  the  preparatory  revelation  of 
the  soul-state  of  Bigourdin.  The  unexpectedness  of 
the  suggestion,  however,  dazed  him.     He  said  politely  : 

"  My  dear  friend,  your  proposal  that  I  should 
associate  myself  with  you  in  this  business  is  a  personal 
compliment,  which  I  shall  never  cease  to  appreciate. 
But " 

"  But  what  ?  " 

"  I  must  think  over  it." 

"  Naturally,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  One  would  be  a 
linnet  or  a  butterfly  instead  of  a  man  if  one  took  a 
step  like  that  without  thinking.  But  at  least  the  idea 
is  not  disagreeable  to  you." 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  Martin.  "  The  only  ques- 
tion is  how  should  I  get  the  money  ?  " 

"  Your  little  heritage,  parbleu." 


210  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  But  that  is  in  Consols — rentes  anglaises,  and  I  only 
get  my  dividends  twice  a  year," 

"  You  could  sell  out  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  and 
get  the  whole  in  bank-notes  or  golden  sovereigns." 

"  I  suppose  I  could,"  said  Martin.  Not  till  then 
held  he  realized  the  simple  fact  that  if  he  chose  he 
could  walk  about  with  a  sack  of  a  thousand  sovereigns 
over  his  shoulder.  He  had  taken  it  in  an  unspeculative 
way  for  granted  that  the  capital  remained  locked  up 
behind  impassable  doors  in  the  Bank  of  England. 
Instinct,  however,  restrained  him  from  confessing  to 
Bigourdin  such  innocence  in  business  affairs. 

"  If  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  as  safe  here  as  in 
the  hands  of  the  British  Government,  I  would  not 
make  the  suggestion." 

Martin  started  upright  in  his  chair. 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  know  that,"  he  cried  ingenuously, 
horrified  lest  he  should  be  thought  to  suspect 
Bigourdin's  good  faith. 

"  And  you  would  no  longer  wear  that  costume." 
Bigourdin  smiled  and  waved  a  hand  towards  the 
dress-suit. 

"  Which  is  beginning  to  show  signs  of  wear,"  said 
Martin. 

He  glanced  down  and  caught  sight  of  the  offending 
splotch  of  grease.  The  quick  association  of  ideas 
caused  a  vision  of  Lucilla  to  pass  before  his  eyes.  He 
heard  her  rich,  deep  voice  :  "  We  meet  in  Egypt." 
But  how  the  deuce  could  they  meet  in  Egypt  or  in  any 
other  Lucilla-lit  spot  on  the  earth  if  he  started  inn- 
keeping  with  Bigourdin,  and  tied  himself  down  for  life 
to  Brantome  ?     A  chill  ran  down  his  spine. 

"Eh,  bien ?  "  said  Bigourdin,  recalling  him  to  the 
petit  salon. 

Martin  had  an  inspiration  of  despair.  "  I  should 
like,"  said  he,  "  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  Fortin- 
bras." 

"  It  is  what  I  should  advise,"  said  Bigourdin  heartily. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  211 

■"  You  can  go  to  Paris  whenever  you  like.  And  now 
nen  parlous  plus.  I  feel  much  happier  than  at  the 
beginning  of  the  evening.  It  is  the  brandy  of  the 
brave  old  Brigadier.  Let  us  empty  the  bottle  and 
drink  to  the  repose  of  his  soul.  He  would  ask  nothing 
better." 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  days  went  on,  and  nothing  more  was  said  of  the 
proposal,  it  being  understood  that,  as  soon  as  Felise 
had  wrought  order  out  of  chaos  for  a  second  time, 
Martin  should  consult  with  Fortinbras,  his  bankers,  his 
solicitors  and  other  eminent  advisers.  They  resumed 
their  evening  visits  to  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,  where 
Bigourdin  and  Monsieur  Viriot  sat  as  far  apart  as  was 
consonant  with  membership  of  the  circle.  On  meeting 
they  saluted  each  other  with  elaborate  politeness,  and 
addressed  each  other  as  "  Monsieur  "  when  occasion 
required  interchange  of  speech.  Every  one  knew  what 
had  happened,  and,  as  every  one  was  determined  that 
the  strained  relations  between  them  should  not  interfere 
with  his  own  personal  comfort,  nobody  cared.  The 
same  games  were  played,  the  same  arguments  de- 
veloped. A  favourite  theme  was  the  probable  action 
of  the  Socialists  on  the  outbreak  of  war.  Some  held. 
Monsieur  Viriot  among  them,  that  they  would  refuse 
to  take  up  arms,  and  would  spread  counsels  of  ignominy 
among  the  people.  The  Professor  at  the  Ecole  Normale, 
allowed  to  express  latitudinarian  views  on  account  of 
his  philosophic  position,  was  of  opinion  that  the  only 
safeguard  against  a  European  war  lay  in  the  solidarity 
of  the  International  Socialist  Brotherhood. 

"  The  Prussian  drill-sergeant,"  said  the  Mayor, 
"  will  soon  see  that  there  is  no  solidarity  as  far  as 
Germany  is  concerned." 

"  We  have  no  drill-sergeants.  The  sous-officier  is 
under  the  ofhcer  who  is  under  the  general  who  is  bought 
by  the  men  we  are  so  besotted  as  to  put  into  power  to 

212 


\ 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  213 

play  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  Our  Socialists  \^^ll 
cleave  to  their  infamous  principles."  Thus  declared 
Monsieur  Viriot,  who  was  a  reactionary  Republican  and 
regarded  Socialism  and  Radicalism  and  anti-clericaHsm 
as  punishments  inflicted  by  an  outraged  Heaven  on  a 
stiff-necked  generation.  "  The  Socialists  will  betray 
us,"  he  cried. 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  Bigourdin  loftily,  "  you  are 
\\Tong  to  accuse  the  loyalty  of  your  compatriots.  I 
am  not  a  Sociahst.  I,  as  every  one  knows,  hold  their 
mischievous  ideas  in  detestation.  But  I  have  faith  in 
the  human  soul.  There's  not  a  Socialist,  not  an 
Anarchist,  not  even  an  Apache,  who,  when  the  German 
cannon  sounds  in  his  ears,  will  not  rush  to  shed  his 
blood  in  the  defence  of  the  sacred  soil  of  France." 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  one. 

"  C'est  hien  dit !  "  cried  another, 

"  After  all,  the  soil  is  in  the  blood,"  said  a  third. 

Monsieur  Cazensac,  the  landlord,  who  stood  listening, 
said  with  a  certain  Gascon  mordancy  : 

"  Scratch  even  a  Minister  and  you  will  find  a  French- 
man." 

And  so  the  discussion — and  who  shall  say  it  was  a 
profitless  one  ? — went  on  evening  after  evening,  as  it 
had  gone  on,  in  some  sort  of  fashion  conditioned  by 
circumstances,  for  over  forty  years. 

On  Christmas  Eve  came  Felise,  convoj-ed  as  far  as 
Perigueux,  where  Bigourdin  met  her  train,  by  the 
promised  man  from  Cook's.  It  was  a  changed  little 
FeHse,  flushed  with  health  and  armoured  in  sophistica- 
tion, that  greeted  Martin.  Her  first  preoccupation  was 
no  longer  the  disasters  that  might  have  occurred  under 
helpless  male  rule  during  her  absence. 

*"  I've  had  the  time  of  my  Hfe,"  she  asserted  with  a 
curious  lazy  accent.  "  It  would  take  weeks  to  tell 
you.  Monte  Carlo  is  too  heavenly  for  words.  Lucilla 
committed  perjury,  and  swore  I  was  over  twenty-one, 
and  got  me  into  the  rooms  and  into  the  Sports  Club, 


214  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

and  what  do  you  think  ?  I  won  a  thousand  francs," 
she  tapped  her  bosom.  "  I  have  it  here  in  good  French 
money." 

Martin  stared.  The  face  was  the  face  of  Felise,  but 
the  voice  was  the  voice  of  Lucilla.  The  Enghsh  too 
of  FeUse  was  no  longer  her  pretty  halting  speech,  but 
fluent,  as  though,  by  her  frequentation  of  English- 
speaking  folk,  all  the  old  vocabulary  of  childhood  had 
returned,  together  with  sundry  accretions.  She  rattled 
off  a  succinct  account  of  the  loveUness  of  the  azure 
coast,  with  its  flowers  and  seas  and  sunshine,  the 
motor  drives  she  had  taken,  the  lunches,  dinners,  and 
suppers  she  had  eaten,  the  people  she  had  met.  Lucilla 
seemed  to  have  friends  everywhere,  mainly  English 
and  American.  They  had  seldom  been  alone.  Felise 
had  lived  all  the  time  in  a  social  whirl. 

"  You  will  find  Brantome  very  dull  now,  Felise," 
said  Martin. 

She  laughed.  "  If  you  think  my  head's  turned, 
you're  mistaken.  It's  a  little  head  more  solid  than 
that."  Then,  growing  serious :  "  What  I  have  seen 
and  heard  yonder,  in  a  different  sort  of  world,  will 
enable  me  to  form  a  truer  judgment  of  things  in 
Brantome." 

Bigourdin  came  near  the  truth  when  he  remarked 
later  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh  : 

"  Here  is  our  little  girl  transformed,  in  a  twinkling, 
into  a  woman.  She  has  acquired  the  art  of  hiding  her 
troubles  and  of  mocking  at  her  tears.  She  will  tell 
me  henceforward  only  what  it  pleases  her  that  I  should 
know." 

Felise  took  up  her  duties  cheerfully,  performing  them 
with  the  same  thoroughness  as  before,  but  with  a 
certain  new  and  sedate  authority.  Her  pretty  assump- 
tion of  dignified  command  had  given  place  to  calm 
assertion.  Euphemie  and  Baptist e,  accustomed  to 
girlish  rebukes  and  rejoinders,  grumbled  at  the  new 
phase.     When   Felise   cut   short   the  hitherto  wonted 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  215 

argument  by  a  :  "  Ma  bonne  Euphemie,  the  way  it  is 
to  be  done  is  the  way  I  want  it  done,"  and  marched 
off  like  a  duchess  unperturbed,  Euphemie  shook  her 
head  and  wondered  whether  she  were  still  in  the  same 
situation.  In  her  attitude  towards  Martin  she  became 
more  formal  as  a  mistress  and  more  superficial  as  a 
social  acquaintance.  She  had  caught  the  trick  of  easy 
talk,  which  might  have  disconcerted  him  had  the 
world  been  the  same  as  it  was  before  the  advent  of 
Lucilla.  But  the  world  had  changed.  He  lived  in 
Brantome  an  automatic  existence,  his  body  there,  his 
spirit  far  away.  His  mind  dwelt  httle  on  any  possible 
deepening  or  hardening  in  the  character  of  Felise.  So 
her  altered  attitude,  though  he  could  not  help  noticing 
it,  caused  him  no  disturbance.  He  thought  casually  : 
"  Compared  with  the  men  she  has  met  in  the  great 
world  I  am  but  a  person  of  mediocre  interest." 

The  New  Year  came  in,  heralded  by  snow  and  ice  all 
over  Europe.  Beneath  the  steel-blue  sky  Brantome 
looked  pinched  with  cold.  The  hotel  was  almost 
empty,  and  Martin  found  it  hard  to  occupy  long  hours 
of  chilly  idleness  otherwise  than  by  dreaming  of  Lucilla 
and  palms  and  sunshine.  Lucilla,  of  course,  was 
always  under  the  palms,  and  the  palms  were  in  the 
sunshine  ;  and  he  was  talking  to  Lucilla,  alone  with 
her  in  the  immensities  of  the  desert.  When  he  had 
dreamed  long  enough  he  shivered,  for  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes  still  depended  for  warmth  on  wood  fires,  and 
there  was  no  central  heating,  and  the  bath  in  the  famous 
bathroom  received  hot  water  through  a  gas  geyser. 
And  then  he  wondered  whether  the  time  had  not  come 
for  him  to  make  his  momentous  journey  to  Paris. 

"  I've  had  a  letter  from  Miss  Meriton,"  said  Felise 
one  day ;  "  she  asks  for  news  of  you,  and  sends  you  her 
kind  regards." 

Martin,  v/ho,  in  shirt-sleeves  and  apron,  was  laying 
tables  in  the  salle  a  manger,  flushed  at  his  goddess's 
message. 


2i6  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  It's  very  good  of  her  to  remember  me." 

"  Oh,  she  remembers  you  right  enough,"  said  F^lise. 

That  meant  that  his  goddess  must  have  spoken  of 
him,  not  only  once,  but  on  various  occasions.  She  had 
carried  him  so  far  in  her  thoughts  as  to  be  interested 
in  his  doings.  Did  her  words  imply  a  veiled  query  as 
to  his  journey  into  Egypt  ?  A  lover  reads  an  infinity 
of  significance  in  his  mistress's  most  casual  utterance, 
but  blandly  fails  to  interpret  the  obvious  tone  in 
which  the  woman  with  whom  he  is  not  in  love  makes 
an  acid  remark. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Merriton  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  informed  him  coldly — not  at  all  with  the  air  of 
the  wild  flov/ers  from  which  Alpine  honey  is  made^ — 
that  Lucilla  was  saiHng  next  week  for  Alexandria. 
"  And,"  said  she,  "  as  I  am  a  sort  of  messenger,  what 
reply  shall  I  make  ?  " 

Martin,  who  had  developed  a  lover's  cunning, 
answered :  "  Give  her  my  respectful  greetings  and 
say  that  I  am  very  well."  No  form  of  words  could  be 
less  compromising. 

That  same  evening,  on  their  cold  way  back  from  the 
Cafe  de  I'Univers,  Bigourdin  said,  using  as  he  had  done 
since  the  night  of  the  intimate  conversation  the  "hi" 
of  familiarit}^  : 

"  Now  that  FeHse  has  returned,  and  all  goes  on 
wheels  and  business  is  slack,  don't  you  think  it  is  a 
good  opportunity  for  you  to  go  to  Paris  for  your 
holiday  and  your  consultations  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  the  day  after  to-morrow,"  replied  Martin. 

"  Have  you  told  Fehse  of  your  proposed  journey  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Martin. 

"  C'est  hien.  When  you  tell  her,  say  it  is  for  the 
sake  of  a  change,  your  health,  your  little  affairs,  v/hat 
you  will.  It  is  better  that  she  should  not  know  of  our 
scheme  until  it  is  all  arranged." 

"  I  think  that  would  be  wiser,"  said  Martin. 

"  In  the  event  of  your  accepting  my  proposition," 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  217 

said  Bigourdin  after  a  pause,  "  have  you  ever  thought 
of  the  possibihty  of  becoming  a  naturahzcd  French- 
man ?  Like  that,  perhaps,  business  might  roll  more 
smootlily.  We  have  already  spoken,  you  and  I,  of 
your  becoming  a  good  P6rigourdin." 

Martin,  hands  in  pockets  and  shoulders  hunched  so 
as  to  obtain  ear-shelter  beneath  the  upturned  collar  of 
his  greatcoat,  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.     Then  : 

"  Nationahty  is  a  strange  thing,"  said  he.  "  The 
more  I  live  in  France,  the  more  proud  I  am  of  being 
an  EngHshman." 

Bigourdin  sprang  a  pace  apart,  -wounded  to  the 
quick.  " Mais  non,  par  exemple  !  You  of  all  men" — 
and  it  was  the  "  vous  "  of  formality — "  ought  not  to 
say  that." 

"  Mais  que  tit  es  bete !  You  misunderstand  me. 
You  don't  let  me  proceed,"  cried  Martin,  halting 
before  him  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  quay.  "  In 
France  I  have  learned  the  meaning  of  the  word 
patriotism.  I  have  been  surrounded  here  with  the 
love  of  country,  and  I  have  reflected.  This  impulse,  so 
strong  in  all  French  hearts,  ought  it  not  to  be  as  strong 
in  the  heart  of  an  Englishman  ?  France  has  taught 
me  the  finest  of  lessons.  I  am  as  loyal  a  Frenchman 
as  any  of  our  friends  at  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,  but " — 
adapting  a  vague  reminiscence  of  the  lyric  to  Lucasta 
— "  I  should  not  love  France  so  much,  if  I  did  not 
love  England  more." 

"  Mon  brave  ami !  "  cried  Bigourdin,  holding  out 
both  hands,  in  a  Frenchman's  instinctive  response  to 
a  noble  sentiment  adequately  expressed.  "  Pardon  me. 
Let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  The  true  Englishman 
who  loves  France  is  a  better  friend  to  us  than  the 
EngHshman  who  has  lost  his  love  for  England." 

Martin  went  to  bed  in  a  somewhat  tortured  frame 
of  mind.  He  was  very  simple,  very  honest,  very 
conscientious.  It  was  true  that  the  flame  of  French 
patriotism  had  kindled  the  fire  of  Enghsh  patriotism 


2i8  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

within  him.  It  was  true  that  he  had  learned  to  love 
this  sober,  intense,  kindly  land  of  France.  It  was  true 
that  here  was  a  generous  bosom  of  France  willing  to 
enfold  him,  an  ahen,  hke  one  of  her  own  sons.  But  it 
was  equally  true  that  in  his  ears  rang  a  clarion-caU 
sounded  not  by  mother  England,  not  by  foster-mother 
France,  but  by  une  petite  sorciere  d'Americaine,  a  fair 
witch  neither  of  England  nor  of  France,  but  from 
beyond  the  estranging  seas.  And  the  day  after 
to-morrow  he  was  journeying  to  Paris  to  take  the 
advice  of  Fortinbras,  Marchand  de  Bonheur.  What 
would  the  dealer  in  happiness  decide  ?  To  wait  until 
some  turn  of  Fortune's  wheel  should  change  his  career 
and  set  him  free  to  wander  forth  across  the  world,  or 
to  invest  his  all  in  an  inglorious  though  comfortable 
future  ?     Either  way  there  would  be  heart-racking. 

But  Bigourdin,  as  he  secured  the  Flotel  des  Grottes 
with  locks  and  bolts,  whistled  Malbrouck  sen  va-t'en 
guerre,  a  sign  of  his  being  pleased  with  existence.  He 
had  no  doubt  of  Fortinbras's  decision.  Fortinbras 
had  practically  given  it  in  a  letter  he  had  received  that 
afternoon.  For  he  had  told  Fortinbras  his  proposal, 
which  was  based  on  the  certainty  of  a  marriage  between 
FeHse  and  Martin,  as  soon  as  the  latter  should  find 
himself  in  a  position  that  would  warrant  a  declaration 
up  to  now  impossible  to  a  man  of  delicate  honour. 
"  They  think  I  am  an  old  mole,"  he  had  written,  "  but 
for  certain  things  I  have  the  eyes  of  a  hawk.  Why 
did  Felise  suddenly  refuse  Lucien  Viriot  ?  Why  has 
Martin  during  her  last  absence  been  in  a  state  of 
depression  lamentable  to  behold  ?  And  now  that 
FeUse  has  returned,  changed  from  a  young  girl  into 
that  thing  of  mystery,  a  woman,  why  are  their  relations, 
once  so  fraternal,  marked  by  an  exquisite  politeness  ? 
And  why  must  Martin  travel  painful  hours  in  a  train 
in  order  to  consult  the  father  of  Felise  ?  Tell  me  all 
that  !  When  it  comes  to  real  diplomacy,  mon  vieux 
Daniel,  trust  the  solid  head  of  Gaspard  Bigourdin," 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  219 

Which  excerpt  affords  a  ghmpse  into  the  workings 
of  a  subtle  yet  ingenuous  mind.  He  hummed  Mal- 
brouck  s'en  va-t'en  guerre  as  he  went  upstairs.  The 
little  American  witch  never  crossed  his  thoughts,  nor 
did  a  possible  appUcation  of  the  line,  Ne  sais  quand 
reviendra. 

The  High  Gods  hold  this  world  in  an  uncertain 
balance  ;  and,  whenever  they  decree  to  turn  things 
topsy-turvy,  they  have  only  to  flick  it  the  myriadth 
part  of  a  millimetre.  They  forthwith  proceeded  to  give 
it  such  a  flick,  and  it  was  Bigourdin  and  not  Martin 
who  went  to  Paris. 

"  Ma  petite  Felise,"  said  Bigourdin  the  next  day, 
"  I  have  received  this  morning  from  Paris  a  telegram 
dispatched  last  night  summoning  me  thither  on  urgent 
business.  I  may  be  away  three  or  four  days,  during 
which  I  have  arranged  for  the  excellent  Madame 
Chauvet,  who  devoted  such  maternal  care  to  you  on 
the  journey  to  Chartres,  to  stay  here  pour  les  con- 
venances." 

The  subtle  diplomatist  smiled  ;  so  that  when  she 
questioned  him  as  to  the  nature  of  this  urgent  business, 
and  he  replied  that  it  was  a  worrying  matter  of  lawyers 
and  stockbrokers,  she  accepted  the  explanation.  But 
to  Martin  : 

"  Mon  pauvre  ami,"  said  he,  with  woebegone  face, 
"  it  is  the  mother  of  Felise.  She  is  dying.  A  syncope. 
We  must  not  let  Felise  know  or  she  would  insist  on 
accompanying  me,  which  would  be  impossible." 

Martin  took  a  detached  view  of  the  situation. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked.  "  She  is  a  woman  now,  and 
able  to  accept  her  share  in  the  tragedy  of  life  with 
courage  and  with  reason.  Why  not  let  her  go  and 
learn  the  truth  ?  " 

Bigourdin  waved  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  I  detest, 
like  you,  this  deception.  Ljning  is  as  foreign  to  my 
character    as    to    yours.     But    que    veux-tu  ?     In    the 


220  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

tragedy  of  my  brother-in-law  there  is  something  at 
once  infinitely  piteous  and  sublime.  In  a  matter  like 
this  the  commands  of  a  father  are  sacred.  Ah,  my 
poor  Cecile  !  "  said  he,  passing  a  great  hand  s\^dftly 
across  his  eyes.  "  Twenty  years  ago,  what  a  pretty 
girl  she  was  !  Of  a  character  somewhat  difficult  and 
bizarre.  But  I  loved  her  more  than  my  sister  Clothilde, 
who  had  all  the  virtues  of  the  petite  rosaire."  He 
fetched  a  deep  sigh.  "  One  is  bound  to  believe  in  the 
eternal  wisdom  of  the  All-Powerful.  There  is  nothing 
between  that  and  the  lunatic  caprice  of  an  Almighty 
mad  goat.  That  is  why  I  hold  to  Christianity,  and 
embark  on  this  terrible  journey  with  fortitude  and 
resignation." 

He  held  out  his  packet  of  Bastos  to  Martin.  They 
lit  cigarettes.  To  give  this  confidential  information 
he  had  drawn  Martin  into  the  murky  little  bureau 
whose  window  looked  upon  the  sad  grey  vestibule. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "  that  your  holiday  has  to 
be  postponed.  But  it  will  only  be  for  a  few  days.  In 
the  meantime  I  leave  Felise  in  the  loyal  care  of  yourself 
and  the  good  Madame  Chan  vet." 


Bigourdin  went  to  Paris,  and  deposited  his  valise  at 
a  little  hotel  in  a  little  street  off  the  Boulevard  Sebas- 
topol,  where  generations  of  Bigourdins  had  stayed, 
perhaps  even  the  famous  Brigadier-General  himself  ; 
where  the  proposed  entertainment  of  an  Englishman 
would  have  caused  the  host  as  much  consternation  as 
that  of  a  giraffe  ;  where  the  beds  were  spotless,  the 
cuisine  irreproachable,  and  other  arrangements  of  a 
beloved  and  unhygienic  antiquity.  Here  the  good 
Perigourdin  found  a  home  from  his  home  in  Perigord. 
The  last  thing  a  solid  and  virtuous  citizen  of  Central 
France  desires  to  do  in  Paris  is  to  Parisianize  himself. 
The  solid  and  virtuous  inhabitants  of  Perigord  went 
to  the  Hotel  de  la  Dordogne,   which  flourishes  now 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  221 

and  feeds  its  customers   as  succulently  as  it   did   a 
hundred  years  ago. 

Having  deposited  his  vaHse  at  this  historic  hostelry, 
Bigourdin  proceeded  to  the  Rue  Maugrabine.  He  had 
n,ever  been  there  before,  and  his  heart  sank,  as  the 
heart  of  Fehse  had  sunk,  when  he  mounted  the  grimy, 
icy  stairs  and  sought  the  home  of  Fortinbras.  His 
sister  Clothildc,  severe  in  awful  mourning,  admitted 
him,  encaged  him  in  a  ghostly  embrace,  and  conducted 
him  into  the  poverty-stricken  living-room  where 
Fortinbras,  in  rusty  black  and  dingy  white  tie,  stood 
waiting  to  receive  him. 

"  Unfortunately,  my  dear  Gaspard,"  said  Fortinbras, 
"  you  are  not  in  time." 

He  opened  the  flimsy  door  set  in  the  paper-covered 
matchboard  partition.  Bigourdin  entered  the  bed- 
room, and  there,  with  blinds  drawn  and  candles 
burning  at  head  and  feet,  lay  all  that  remained  of 
Cecile  Fortinbras.  He  returned  soon  afterwards,  drying 
his  eyes,  for  memories  of  childhood  had  brought  tears. 
He  wrung  Fortinbras  by  the  hand. 

"  Here,  mon  vieux  Daniel,  is  the  very  sad  end  of  a 
life  that  was  somewhat  tragic  ;  but  you  can  console 
yourself  with  the  thought  of  your  long  devotion  and 
tenderness." 

Clothilde  Robineau  tossed  her  head  and  sniffed  : 

"  I  don't  see  around  me  much  evidence  of  those  two 
qualities." 

"  Your  reproaches,  Clothilde,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  are 
as  just  as  Gaspard's  consolation  is  generous." 

"  I  am  glad  you  acknowledge,  at  last,  that  it  was 
you  who  dragged  my  unfortunate  sister  down  to  this 
misery." 

Fortinbras  made  no  reply.  Lives  like  his  one  must 
understand  and  pardon  as  Bigourdin  had  done. 
Nothing  that  he  could  say  could  mitigate  the  animosity 
of  Clothilde,  which  he  had  originally  incurred  by 
marrying   her   sister.     She   would   be   moved   by   no 


222  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

pleading    that    it    was    his    wife's    extravagance    and 
intemperance  that  had  urged  him  to  the  mad  tampering 
with  other  people's  money  (money  honestly  repaid,  but 
all  the  same  diverted  wrongly  for  a  time)  which  had 
caused  him  to  be  struck  off  the  roll  of  solicitors  and  to 
leave    England   a    disgraced   man.     She   would   have 
retorted  that  had  he  not  been  addicted  to  boissons 
alcooliques,  a  term  which  in  France  always  means  fiery 
spirits,  and  had  he  not  led  the  Ufe  of  the  theatre  and 
the   restaurant,    C^cile   would   have   been   sober   and 
thrifty    hke    herself    and    Gaspard.     And    Fortinbras 
would  have  beat  his  breast  saying,  "  Mea  culpa."     He 
might    have    pleaded    the    after    years    of    ceaseless 
struggle.     But  to  what  end  ?     As  soon  as  his  wife  was 
laid    beneath    the    ground,    Clothilde    would    gather 
together  her  skirts  and  pass  for  ever  out  of  his  life. 
Bigourdin  knew  of  his  remorse,  his  home  of  unending 
horror,  his  efforts  ever  frustrated,  the  weight  at  his 
feet   that   not   only  prevented  him   from  rising    but 
dragged  him  gradually  down,  down,  down. 

But  even  Bigourdin,  who  had  not  been  to  Paris  for 
ten  years,  had  not  appreciated  till  now  the  depths  of 
poverty  into  wliich  Fortinbras  and  his  sister  had 
sunk.  His  last  visit  to  them  had  been  painful.  A 
drunken,  dishevelled  hostess,  especially  when  she  is 
your  own  sister,  does  not  make  for  charm.  But  they 
lived  in  a  reputable  apartment  at  Auteuil,  and  there 
was  a  good  carpet  on  the  floor  of  the  salon,  and  chairs 
and  tables  such  as  are  found  in  Christian  dwellings, 
and  on  the  mantelpiece  stood  the  ormolu  clock,  and  on 
the  walls  hung  the  pictures  which  had  once  adorned 
their  home  in  London.  How  had  they  come  down  to 
this  ?     He  shivered,  cold  and  ill  at  ease. 

"  As  you  must  be  hungry  after  your  long  journey, 
Gaspard,"  said  Madame  Robineau,  "  I  should  advise 
you  to  go  out  to  a  restaurant.  The  cuisine  of  the 
femme  de  journee  I  do  not  recommend.  For  me,  I 
must  keep  watch,  and  it  being  Friday  I  fast  as  usual." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  223 

Fortinbras  made  no  pretence  at  hospitality.  Had 
he  been  able  to  set  forth  a  banquet,  he  felt  that  every 
morsel  would  have  been  turned  into  stone  by  the 
basihsk  eyes  of  Clothilde.  Both  men  rose  simul- 
taneously, glad  to  be  free.  They  went  out,  took  an 
omnibus  haphazard,  and  eventually  entered  a  restaurant 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Tour  Saint  Jacques. 

"  Mon  vietcx  Daniel,"  said  Bigourdin,  as  soon  as  they 
were  seated.  "  TeU  me  frankly,  for  I  don't  under- 
stand. How  comes  it  that  you  are  in  these  dreadful 
straits  ?  " 

Fortinbras  smiled  sadly. 

"  One  earns  little  by  translating  from  French  into 
Enghsh,  and  still  less  by  dispensing  happiness  to 
youth." 

"  But — "  Bigourdin  hesitated.  "  But  3^ou  have  had 
other  resources — not  much  certainly,  but  still  some- 
thing." 

'"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Fortinbras.  "  You 
know  that  in  five  years  Cecile  scattered  her  own  dowry 
to  the  winds  and  left  me  at  the  edge  of  a  whirlpool  of 
debt.  All  of  my  own  I  could  scrape  together  and 
borrow  I  threw  in  to  save  myself  from  prison.  She 
had  no  heritage  from  her  father.  On  what  else  can 
we  have  lived  save  on  my  precarious  earnings  ?  " 

Bigourdin,  both  elbows  on  the  table,  plucked  at  his 
upstanding  bristles  and  gazed  intently  at  Fortinbras. 

"  Ever  since  the  great  misfortune,  when  you  returned 
to  France,  Cecile  has  had  her  own  income." 

"  You  are  dreaming,  Gaspard.  From  what  source 
could  she  obtain  an  income  ?  " 

"  From  me,  parbleu  !  "  cried  Bigourdin.  "  I  always 
thought  my  father's  wiU  was  unjust.  Cecile  should 
have  had  her  share.  When  I  thought  she  needed 
assistance,  I  arranged  with  my  la\vyer,  Maitre  Dupuy, 
33  Rue  des  Augustins,  Paris,  to  allow  her  five  thousand 
francs  a  year  in  monthly  instalments,  and  I  know — 
sacrebleu  ! — that  it  has  been  paid." 


224  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Fortinbras  also  put  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  the 
two  men  looked  close  into  each  other's  faces. 

"  I  know  absolutely  nothing  about  it.  Cecile  has 
not  had  one  penny  that  I  have  not  given  to  her." 

"It  is  horrible  to  speak  Hke  this,"  said  Bigourdin. 
"  But  one  cannot  drink  to  excess  without  spending 
much  money.     Where  did  she  get  it  ?  " 

"  There  are  alcohols  unknown  to  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes,  which  it  takes  little  money  to  buy.  To  get 
that  httle  she  has  pawned  the  sheets  off  the  bed." 

"  Nom  de  Dieu,"  said  Bigourdin. 

It  was  a  miserable  meal,  ending  almost  in  silence. 
When  it  was  over  they  called  at  the  cabinet  of  Maitre 
Dupuy.  They  found  everything  in  order.  Every 
month  for  years  past  Madame  Fortinbras  had  received 
the  sum  of  four  hundred  and  sixteen  francs,  sixty-five 
centimes.  She  had  come  personally  for  the  money. 
Maitre  Dupuy  remembered  his  first  interview  with 
madame.  She  had  expressly  forbidden  him  to  send 
the  money  to  the  house  lest  it  should  fall  into  the 
hands  of  her  husband.  He  infinitely  regretted  to 
make  such  a  statement  in  the  presence  of  monsieur, 
but  those  were  the  facts. 

"  All  this  is  evidence  in  favour  of  what  I  told  you," 
said  Fortinbras. 

"  I  never  doubted  you  !  "  cried  Bigourdin,  "  and 
this  is  proof.  But  what  can  she  have  done  with  all 
that  money  ?  " 

It  was  a  mystery.  They  went  back  to  the  Rue 
Maugrabine.     On  the  way  Fortinbras  asked  : 

"  Why  have  you  never  told  me  what  you  were 
doing  ?  " 

"  I  took  it  for  granted  that  you  knew,  and  that,  par 
delicatesse,  the  subject  was  not  to  be  mentioned 
between  us." 

"  And  Clothilde  ?  " 

But  Bigourdin  v/as  one  of  those  who  kept  the  left 
hand  in  ignorance  of  the  generous  actions  of  the  right. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  225 

He  threw  out  his  great  arms,  to  the  disturbance  of 
pedestrian  traffic. 

"  Tell  Clothilde  ?     What  do  you  take  me  for  ?  " 

A  day  or  two  of  continuous  strain  and  hopelessness, 
and  then  under  the  auspices  of  the  Pompes  funehres 
and  the  clergy  of  the  parish,  the  poor  body  of  Cecile 
Fortinbras  was  laid  to  rest.  Not  till  then  did  any  one 
send  word  to  Felise.  Even  Madame  Robineau  agreed 
that  it  was  best  she  should  not  know.  As  she  had  left 
Chartres,  self-willed  and  ungovernable,  so,  on  the 
receipt  of  the  news  of  her  mother's  death,  might  she 
leave  Brantome.  Her  appearance  amid  these  squalid 
happenings  v/ould  be  inconvenahle. 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  love  Felise,"  she  added.  "  But 
she  is  a  young  girl  of  our  family,  and  it  is  not  correct 
that  she  should  see  such  things." 

Wlien  the  train  carrjdng  Madame  Robineau  back  to 
Chartres  steamed  out  of  the  Gare  Montparnasse  both 
men  drew  a  breath  of  rehef. 

"  Mon  ami,"  said  Bigourdin,  "  the  Bible  taught 
the  Church  the  beautiful  history  of  Jesus  Christ.  The 
Church  told  a  bishop.  The  bishop  told  a  priest.  The 
priest  told  the  wife  of  the  sub-prefect.  The  wife  of 
the  sub-prefect  told  the  wife  of  the  mayor.  The  wife 
of  the  mayor  told  the  elderl}^,  unmarried  sister  of  the 
corn-chandler,  and  the  unmarried  sister  of  the  corn- 
chandler  told  Clothilde.  And  that's  all  Clothilde 
knows  about  Christianity.  Still,"  he  added,  in  his 
judicious  way,  "  she  is  a  woman  of  remarkable  virtue 
She  has  a  strong  sense  of  duty.  Without  a  particle  of 
love  animating  her  heart,  she  has  just  spent  three  days 
and  nights  \dtliout  sleep,  food,  or  fresh  air.  It's  line, 
all  the  sam.e." 

"  I  am  not  ungrateful,"  said  Fortinbras. 

They  entered  a  cafe  for  the  sake  of  shelter  from  the 
bitter  January  wind,  and  they  talked,  as  they  had 
done  lately,  of  many  intimate  things  ;  of  the  past,  of 
Martin,   of  the  immediate  future.     Fortinbras  would 


226  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

not  accompany  Bigourdin  to  Brantome.  His  presence 
would  only  add  poignancy  to  the  grief  of  Felise.  It 
was  more  impossible  now  than  ever  to  undeceive  her, 
as  one  could  not  speak  ill  of  the  dead.  No  ;  he  would 
remain  in  Paris,  where  he  had  much  to  do.  First  he 
must  move  from  the  Rue  Maugrabine.  The  place 
would  be  haunted.  Besides,  what  did  one  old  vagabond 
want  with  two  rooms  and  a  kitchen  ?  He  would  sell 
his  few  belongings,  and  take  a  furnished  room  some- 
where among  the  chimney-pots.  .  .  .  Bigourdin  lifted 
his  petit  verre  of  Armagnac,  and  forgetting  all  about 
it,  put  it  down  again. 

"  What  I  am  going  to  tell  you,"  said  he,  "  may  seem 
cynical,  but  it  is  only  common  sense.  Do  not  leave 
the  Rue  Maugrabine  without  having  searched  every 
corner,  every  box,  every  garment,  every  piece  of 
furniture." 

"  Search  ?     Wliat  for  ?  " 

"  The  little  economies  of  Cecile,"  said  Bigourdin. 

Fortinbras  put  up  a  protesting  hand.  Instinct 
revolted.     "  Impossible  !  "  he  declared. 

Bigourdin  persisted.  "  Although  you  have  lived 
long  in  the  country  and  been  married  to  a  French- 
woman, you  do  not  know,  like  myself  who  have  it  in 
my  veins,  of  what  the  peasant  blood  of  France  is 
capable  where  money  is  concerned.  It  is  impossible, 
on  your  own  showing,  that  Cecile  should  have  spent 
five  thousand  francs  a  year.  You  have  seen  for 
yourself  that  she  received  the  money.  What  has  she 
done  with  it  ?  "  He  leaned  across  the  table,  and  with 
great  forefinger  tapped  the  shoulder  of  Fortinbras. 
"She  has  hoarded  it.  It  is  there  in  the  Rue  Mau- 
grabine." 

Fortinbras  shook  his  leonine  head.  "  It  was  absurd. 
In  the  olden  days,  when  she  had  money,  had  she  not 
scattered  it  recklessly  ?  "     Bigourdin  agreed. 

"  But  then,"  said  he,  "  you  struck  misfortune, 
poverty.     Did  you  not  observe  a  change  in  her  habits. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  227 

and  in  her  character  ?  Of  course,  we  have  often 
spoken  of  it.  It  was  the  outer  trappings  of  the 
bourgeois  that  had  disappeared,  and  the  paysanne 
asserted  herself.  For  many  years  my  father  supported 
my  mother's  mother,  a  peasant  from  La  Beauce  who 
gave  out  that  she  was  penniless.  When  she  died  they 
accidentally  found  the  mattress  of  her  bed  stuffed  with 
a  httle  fortune.  The  blood  of  Grandmere  Tidier  ran 
in  the  veins  of  Cecile.  And  Cecile,  hke  all  the  family, 
knew  of  the  fortune  of  Grandmere  Tidier." 

All  that  in  Fortinbras  was  half-forgotten,  buried 
beneath  the  rubbish-heap  of  years,  again  protested  : 
his  gently  nurtured  childhood,  his  smooth  Enghsh 
home,  his  impeccable  Anglo-Indian  father,  Major- 
General  Fortinbras,  who  had  all  the  servants  in  morning 
and  evening  for  family  prayers,  and  read  the  lessons  in 
the  little  village  church  on  Sundays,  his  schooldays — 
Winchester,  with  its  noble  traditions — all  that,  as  we 
English  understand  it,  goes  to  the  making  of  an 
honourable  gentleman.  If  Pactolus,  dammed  by  his 
wife  poured  through  the  kitchen  taps,  he  would  not 
turn  them. 

"  It  is  I  then  that  will  do  it,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  I 
am  not  Anti-Semite  in  any  way  :  but  to  present  a 
Jew  dealer,  who  is  already  very  well  off,  with  many 
thousands  of  francs  is  the  act  of  an  imbecile." 

He  tossed  off  his  glass  of  Armagnac,  beckoned  the 
waiter,  threw  down  the  coins  for  payment,  and  rose. 

"  Alloyis  I  "  said  he. 

Fortinbras,  exhausted  in  mind  and  soul,  followed 
him.  An  auto-taxi  took  them  to  the  Rue  Maugrabine. 
The  desolate  and  haggard  femme  de  journee  was  restor- 
ing the  house  of  death  to  some  sort  of  aimless  order. 
Bigourdin  put  a  ten-franc  piece  into  her  hand. 

"  That  is  for  you.     Come  back  in  two  hours'  time." 

The  woman  went.  The  two  men  were  left  alone  in 
the  wretched  little  room,  whose  poverty  stared  from 
its  cracked  and  faded  waU-paper,  from  its  bare  floor, 


228  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

from   the  greasy  plush  couch  wdth   one  maimed  leg 
stuck  in  an  old  salmon  tin. 

Fortinbras  threw  himself  with  familiar  recklessness 
on  the  latter  article  of  furniture  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand. 

"  A  quarter  of  a  century  is  a  long  time,  my  dear 
Gaspard,"  said  he.  "A  quarter  of  a  century's  daily 
and  nightly  intimate  association  with  another  human 
being  leaves  a  deep  imprint  on  one's  soul.  I  have  been 
very  unhappy,  it  is  true.  But  I  have  never  been  so 
unhappy  and  so  hopeless  as  I  am  now.  Let  me  be 
for  a  little.     My  head  is  stupefied." 

"  Mon  pauvre  vieux,"  said  Bigourdin,  very  gently. 
He  glanced  around,  and  seeing  a  blanket,  which 
Clothiide  had  used  during  her  vigil,  neatly  folded  by 
the  femme  de  joitrnee  and  laid  upon  a  wooden  chair,  he 
threw  it  over  the  recumbent  Fortinbras.  "  Mo7i  paiLvre 
vieux,  you  are  exhausted.    Stay  there  and  go  to  sleep." 

The  very  weary  man  closed  his  eyes.  Two  hours 
later  the  femme  de  journe'e  appeared.  Bigourdin,  with 
his  finger  to  his  lips,  pointed  to  the  sleeper  and  told 
her  to  come  in  the  morning.  It  was  then  six  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  Bigourdin,  wrapped  in  whatever 
coverings  he  could  find,  dozed  in  a  rickety  arm-chair 
for  man}^  hours,  until  Fortinbras  awoke  with  a  start. 

"  I  must  have  fallen  asleep,"  he  said.  "  I'm  very 
sorry.     What  is  the  time  ?  " 

Bigourdin  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  Midnight,"  said  he. 

Fortinbras  rose,  passed  both  hands  over  his  white 
flowing  hair. 

"  I  too,  hke  Clothiide,  haven't  slept  for  two  or  three 
nights.  Sleep  came  upon  me  all  of  a  sudden.  Let  me 
see  " — he  touched  his  broad  forehead — "  you  brought 
me  back  here  for  some  purpose." 

"  I  did,"  said  Bigourdin.     "  Come." 

He  took  the  lamp  from  the  table  and  led  his  brother- 
in-law  into  the  bedroom. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  229 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  bed. 

The   upper   ticking   had   been   ripped   clean   away 
And  there,  in  the  horsehair,  on  the  side  where  Cecile 
had  slept,  were  five  or  six  odd  little  nests.     And  each 
nest  was  stuffed  tight  with  bank-notes  and  gold. 

"  It's  all  yours,"  said  Fortinbras. 

Bigourdin,  swinging  arms  like  a  windmill,  swept 
imbeciles  like  Fortinbras  to  the  thirty-two  points  of 
the  compass, 

"  It  is  the  property  of  Cecile.  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  I  am  a  man  of  honour,  not  a  scoundrel.  It 
belonged  to  Cecile.     It  now  belongs  to  you." 

They  argued  for  a  long  time,  until  sheer  hunger  sent 
them  forth.  And  over  supper  in  a  little  restaurant  of 
the  quarter  they  argued,  until  at  last  Bigourdin,  very 
wearied,  retired  to  the  Hotel  de  la  Dordogne,  and 
Fortinbras  returned  to  the  Rue  Maugrabine,  to  find 
himself  the  unwilling  possessor  of  about  two  thousand 
pounds. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  interest  which  Felise  manifested  in  Madame 
Chaiivet's  conversation  surprised  that  simple-minded 
lady.  Madame  Chauvet  fully  realized  her  responsi- 
bilities. She  performed  her  dragonly  duties  with  the 
conscientiousness  of  a  French  mother  who  had  (and 
was  likely  to  have  to  the  end  of  the  chapter)  marriage- 
able daughters.  But  commerce  is  commerce,  and  the 
young  girl  engaged  in  commercial  management  in  her 
own  house  has,  in  France,  owing  to  the  scope  required 
by  her  activities,  far  more  freedom  than  her  school 
contemporary  who  leads  a  purely  domestic  life  :  a  fact 
recognized  by  the  excellent  Madame  Chauvet  as  duly 
estabhshed  in  the  social  scheme.  She  was  ready  to 
allow  Felise  all  the  necessary  latitude.  Felise  claimed 
scarcely  any.  She  kept  the  good  Madame  Chauvet 
perpetually  pinned  to  her  skirts.  She  had  not  a 
confidential  word  to  say  to  Martin. 

Now  Madame  Chauvet  liked  Martr  \,  as  did  every  one 
in  Brantome.  He  was  courteous,  he  was  modest,  he 
was  sympathetic.  Whatever  he  did  was  marked  by 
an  air  of  good  breeding  which  the  French  are  very 
quick  to  notice.  Whether  he  handed  her  the  stewed 
veal  or  listened  to  the  latest  phase  of  her  clironic 
phlebitis,  Madame  Chauvet  always  felt  herself  in  the 
presence  of  what  she  termed  une  dme  d' elite — a  picked 
and  chosen  soul ;  he  was  also  as  gentle  as  a  sheep.. 
Why,  therefore,  Felise,  in  her  daily  intercourse  with 
Martin,  should  insist  on  her  waving  the  banner  of  the 
proprieties   over  their  heads  was  more  than  the  good 

lady  could  understand.     Felise  was  more  royalist  than,' 

230 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  231 

the  King,  more  timid  than  a  nunnery,  more  white  wax 
and  rose-leaves  than  her  favourite  author.  Monsieur 
Rene  Bazin,  had  ever  dared  to  portray  as  human.  If 
Martin  had  been  six  foot  of  thews  and  muscles,  with 
conquering  moustaches,  and  bold  and  alluring  e^^es, 
she  would  not  have  hesitated  to  protect  Felise  with 
her  Frenchwoman's  little  plump  body  and  unshakable 
courage.  But  why  all  this  precaution  against  the 
mild,  grey-eyed,  saUow-faced  Martin,  doux  comme  un 
mouion  ?  And  wh}'  this  display  of  daughterly  affection 
suddenly  awakened  after  fifteen  years'  tepid  acquain- 
tance ?  Even  Martin,  unconscious  of  offence,  wondered 
at  such  prim  behaviour.  The  fact  remained,  however, 
that  she  scarcely  spoke  to  him  during  the  greater  part 
of  Bigourdin's  absence. 

But  when  the  news  came  that  her  mother  was  dead 
and  laid  to  rest,  and  she  had  recovered  from  the  first 
overwhelming  shock,  she  dropped  all  outer  trappings 
of  manner  and  became  once  more  the  old  Fehse. 
Madame  Chauvet,  knowing  nothing  of  the  dream- 
mother,  offered  her  unintelligent  consolation.  She 
turned  instinctively  to  IMartin,  in  whom  she  had 
confided.  Martin  was  moved  by  her  grief,  and  did  his 
best  to  sympathize  ;  but  he  wished  whole-heartedly 
that  Bigourdin  had  not  told  him  the  embarrassing 
truth.  Here  was  the  poor  girl  weeping  her  eyes  out 
over  a  dead  angel  whom  he  knew  to  be  nothing  of  the 
kind.  He  upbraided  himself  for  a  sacrilegious  hypo- 
crite when  he  suggested  that  they  would  meet  in 
Heaven.     She  withdrew,  however,  apparently  consoled. 

A  few  hours  later  she  came  to  him  again — in  the 
vestibule.  She  had  dried  her  eyes,  and  she  wore  the 
air  of  one  who  has  accepted  sorrow  and  bravely  faced 
an  unalterable  situation.  She  showed  also  a  puzzled 
little  knitting  of  the  brows. 

"  Tell  me  truly,  Martin,"  she  said.  "  Did  my  uncle, 
before  he  left,  give  you  the  real  reason  of  his  going  to 
Paris  ?  " 


232  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Challenged,  Martin  could  not  lie.  "  Yes.  Your 
mother  was  very  ill.  But  he  commanded  me  not  to 
tell  you,  in  order  to  save  you  suffering.  He  didn't 
know.  She  might  recover,  in  which  case  all  would 
have  been  well." 

"  So  you,  too,  were  dragged  into  this  strange  plot 
to  keep  me  away  from  my  mother." 

"  I've  never  heard  of  one,  Felise,"  answered  Martin, 
this  time  with  conscience-smiting  mendacity,  "  and  my 
part  has  been  quite  innocent." 

"  There  has  been  a  plot  of  some  kind,"  said  Felise, 
breaking  into  the  more  familiar  French.  "  My  uncle, 
my  father,  my  Aunt  Clothilde  have  been  in  it.  And 
now  you — under  my  uncle's  orders.  There  has  been  a 
mystery  about  my  mother  which  I  have  never  been 
able  to  understand — like  the  mystery  of  the  Trinity 
or  the  Holy  Sacraments.  And  to-day  I  understand 
still  less.  I  have  not  seen  my  mother  since  I  was  five 
years  old.  She  has  not  written  to  me  for  manj^  years, 
although  I  have  written  regularly.  Did  she  get  my 
letters  ?  These  are  questions  I  have  been  asking 
myself  the  last  few  hours.  Why  did  my  father  not 
allow  me  to  see  her  in  the  hospital  in  Paris  ?  Why 
did  my  Aunt  Clothilde  always  turn  the  mention  of  her 
name  aside,  and  would  tell  me  nothing  about  her  ? 
And  now,  when  she  died,  why  did  they  not  telegraph 
for  me  to  go  to  Paris,  so  as  to  look  for  one  last  time  on 
her  face  ?  They  knew  all  that  was  in  my  lieart. 
What  have  they  all  been  hiding  from  me  ?  " 

"  My  poor  Felise,"  said  Martin,  "  how  can  I  tell  ?  " 

And  how  could  he,  seeing  that  he  was  bound  in 
honour  to  keep  her  in  ignorance  ? 

"  Sometimes  I  think  she  may  have  had  some 
dreadful  disease  that  ravaged  her  dear  features,  and 
they  wished  to  spare  me  the  knowledge.  But  my 
father  has  always  drawn  me  the  picture  of  her  b-'ing 
beautiful  as  she  always  was  upon  the  bed  she  could 
not  leave." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  233 

"  Whatever  it  was,"  said  Martin,  "  you  may  be  sure 
that  those  who  love  you  acted  for  the  best." 

"  That  is  all  very  well  for  a  child  ;  but  not  for  a 
gro^vn  woman.  And  it  is  not  as  though  I  have  not 
shown  myself  capable  of  serious  responsibilities.  It  is 
heart-rending,"  she  added  after  a  little  pause,  "  to  look 
into  the  eyes  of  those  one  loves  and  see  in  them  some- 
thing hidden." 

Sitting  there  sideways  on  the  couch  by  Martin's  side, 
her  girlish  figure  bent  forward  and  her  hands  nervously 
clasped  on  her  knee,  th^  oval  of  her  prett}^  face 
lengthened  despondently,  her  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
in  reproachful  appeal,  she  looked  at  once  so  pathetic 
and  so  winning  that  for  the  moment  he  forgot  the  glory 
of  Lucilla  and  longed  to  comfort  her.  He  laid  his  hand 
on  her  white  knuckles. 

"  I  would  give  anything— — "  said  he. 

She  loosened  her  clasp,  thus  eluding  his  touch,  and 
moved  a  little  aside.  Madame  Chauvet  appeared 
from  the  kitchen  passage,  bearing  a  steaming  cup. 

"  Ma  panvre  petite,"  she  said,  "  I  have  brought  you 
a  cup  of  camomile  tea.     Drink  it.     It  calms  the  nerves." 

Martin  rose,  and  the  good  lady  took  his  seat  and 
discoursed  picturesquely  upon  her  own  mother's  last 
illness,  death,  and  funeral,  until  Felise,  notwithstanding 
the  calming  properties  of  the  camomile  tea,  burst  into 
tears  and  fled  to  her  room. 

"  Poor  little  girl,"  said  Madame  Chauvet,  sympa- 
thetically. "  I  cried  just  like  that.  I  remember  it  as 
if  it  were  yesterday." 

The  next  day  Bigourdin  returned.  He  walked 
about  expanding  his  chest  with  great  draughts  of  air 
Hke  the  good  provincial  who  had  suffocated  in  the 
capital.  He  railed  at  the  atmosphere,  the  fever,  the 
cold-heartedness  of  Paris. 

"  One  is  much  better  here,"  said  he.  "  And  we 
have  made  much  further  progress  in  civilization.  Even 
the  Hotel  de  la  Dordogne  has  not  yet  a  bathroom." 


234  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

He  was  closeted  long  with  Felise,  and  afterwards 
came  to  Martin,  great  wrinkles  of  perturbation  marking 
his  forehead. 

"  She  has  been  asking  me  questions  which  it  has 
taken  all  my  tact  and  diplomacy  to  answer.  Mon 
Dieu,  que  j'ai  7nenti !  But  I  have  convinced  her  that 
all  we  have  done  with  regard  to  her  mother  has  been 
right.     I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  said." 

"  You  had  better  not,"  replied  Martin,  anxious  to 
have  no  more  embarrassing  confidences  ;  "  the  less  I 
know,  the  simpler  it  is  for  me  to  plead  ignorance  when 
Felise  questions  me— not  to  say  the  more  truthful." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  Magna  est 
Veritas  et  pycBvalehit."  And  as  Martin,  not  catching  the 
phrase  as  pronounced  in  Continental  fashion,  looked 
puzzled,  he  repeated  it.  "  It's  Latin,"  he  added. 
"^Why  should  I  not  quote  it  ?  I  have  received  a  good 
education." 

Now  about  this  time  a  gracious  imp  of  meddlesome- 
ness alighted  on  Lucilla's  shoulder  and  whispered  into 
her  ear.  She  arose  from  a  sea  of  delicate  raiment  and 
tissue  paper  whose  transference  by  Celeste  into  ugly 
trunks  she  and  Heliogabalus  were  idly  superintending, 
and,  sitting  down  at  the  writing-desk  of  her  hotel 
bedroom,  scribbled  a  short  letter.  If  she  had  blown 
the  imp  away,  as  she  might  easily  have  done,  for  such 
imps  are  irresponsible  dragon-fly  kind  of  creatures, 
Martin  might  possibly  have  forgone  his  consultation 
with  Fortinbras  and  remained  at  Brantome.  Felise 
having  once  restored  him  to  the  position  he  occupied 
in  her  confidence  allowed  him  to  remain  there.  In 
his  thoughts  she  assumed  a  new  significance.  He 
reahzed,  in  his  blundering  masculine  way,  that  she 
was  many-sided,  complex,  mysterious  ;  at  one  turn 
simple  and  caressive  as  a  child,  at  another  passionate 
in  her  affections,  at  yet  another  calm  and  self-reliant ; 
altogether  that  she  had  a  strangely  sweet  and  strong 
personality.     For  the  first  time  the  alliance  so  subtl}^ 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR       '         235 

planned  by  Bigourdin  entered  his  head.  If  Bigourdin 
thought  him  worthy  to  be  his  partner  and  carry  on 
the  historic  traditions  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes,  surely 
he  would  look  with  approval  on  his  carrying  them  on 
in  conjunction  with  the  most  beloved  member  of  his 
family.  And  Felise  ?  There  his  inexperience  came  to 
a  stone  wall.  He  was  modest.  He  did  not  in  the 
least  assume  as  a  possibility  that  she  might  have 
already  given  him  her  heart.  But  he  reflected  that, 
after  all,  in  the  way  of  nature,  maidens  did  marry 
unattractive  and  undeserving  men  ;  that  except  for  an 
unaccountable  phase  of  coldness,  she  had  alwa^^s 
bestowed  on  him  a  friendly  regard  which,  if  courteously 
fostered,  might  develop  into  an  affection  warranting 
on  her  part  a  marriage  with  so  unattractive  and 
undeserving  a  man  as  himself.  And  Bigourdin,  great, 
splendid-hearted  fellow,  claimed  him,  and  this  warm 
Perigord,  this  land  of  plenty  and  fat  things,  claimed 
him.  Here  lay  his  destiny.  Why  not  blot  out,  with 
the  blackest  curtain  of  will,  the  refulgent  figure  that 
was  making  his  life  a  torture  and  a  dream  ? 
And  then  came  the  imp-inspired  letter. 

Dear  Mr.  Overshaw, — I  am  starting  for  Egypt 
to-morrow.     I  hope  you  will  redeem  3'our  promise. 
With  kind  regards. 

Yours  sincerely, 

LUCILLA   MeRRITON. 

Pai-al3^sed  then  were  the  promptings  towards  sluggish 
plenitude  and  tepid  matrimonial  comfort.  Love  sum- 
moned him  to  fantastic  adventure.  For  a  while  he 
lost  mental  balance.  He  decided  to  put  himself  in 
the  hands  of  Fortinbras.  He  would  abide  loyally  by 
his  decision.  Under  his  auspices  he  had  already  made 
one  successful  bid  for  happiness.  By  dismissing 
Margett's  Universal  College  to  the  hmbo  of  irretrievable 
things,  according  to  the  Dealer's  instructions,  had  he 
not  tasted  during  the  past  five  months  hundreds  of 


236  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

the  once  forbidden  delights  of  Ufe  ?  Was  he  the  same 
man  who  in  apologetic  trepidation  had  written  to 
Corinna  in  August  ?  His  blind  faith  in  Fortinbras  was 
intensified  by  knowledge  of  the  suffering  whereby  the 
Dealer  in  Happiness  had  acquired  wisdom.  East  or 
West,  wliichever  way  Fortinbras  pointed,  he  would  go. 

Thus  in  some  measure  he  salved  his  conscience 
when  he  left  Brantome.  Bigourdin  expected  him  back 
at  the  end  of  his  fortnight's  holida3^  So  did  Felise. 
She  packed  him  a  little  basket  of  food  and  wine,  and 
with  a  smile  bade  him  hasten  back.  She  did  not 
question  the  purport  of  his  journey.  He  needed  a 
change,  a  peep  into  the  great  world  of  Paris  and 
London. 

"  If  you  have  a  quarter  the  good  time  I  had,  I  envy 
3'ou,"  she  said. 

And  Bigourdin,  ^vith  a  grip  of  the  hand  and  a  knowing 
smile  as  they  parted,  whispered  :  "I  will  give  that 
old  dress-suit  to  Anatole,  the  plongeur  at  the  Cafe  de 
rUnivers.     He  \vill  be  enchanted." 

The  train  steamed  out  of  the  station  carr5nng  a 
traitorous,  double-dyed  villain.  It  arrived  at  Paris 
carrying  a  sleepless,  anxious-cj^ed  j'^oung  man  throbbing 
with  suspense.  He  drove  to  the  Hotel  du  Soleil  et  de 
I'Ecosse. 

"  Ah !  monsieur  has  returned,"  said  the  fat  and 
greasy  Bocardon  as  he  entered. 

"  Evidently,"  replied  Martin,  who  now  had  no 
timidities  in  the  presence  of  hotel  managers,  and  v/as 
not  impressed  by  the  professional  facial  memory.  Was 
he  not  himself  on  the  verge  of  becoming  a  French  inn- 
keeper ?  He  presented  a  business  card  of  the  Hotel 
des  Grottes  mysteriously  inscribed  by  Bigourdin,  and 
demanded  a  good  room.  The  beady  black  eyes  of  the 
Provencal  regarded  him  shrewdly. 

"  Some  months  ago  you  were  a  professor." 

"It  is  always  permissible  for  an  honest  man  to 
change  his  vocation,"  said  Martin. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  237 

"  That  is  very  true,"  said  Bocardon.  "  I  myself 
made  my  studies  as  a  veterinary  surgeon,  but  as  I  am 
one  of  those  unfortunates  whom  horses  always  kick 
and  dogs  always  bite,  I  entered  the  service  of  my 
brother,  Emile  Bocardon,  who  keeps  an  hotel  at 
Nimes." 

"  The  Hotel  de  la  Curatterie,"  said  Martin. 

"  You  know  it  ?  "  cried  Bocardon  jo^^ously. 

"  Not  personally.  But  it  is  familiar  to  every 
commis  voyageur  in  France." 

His  professional  knowledge  at  once  gained  him  the 
esteem  and  confidence  of  Monsieur  Bocardon  and  a 
magnificent  chamber  at  a  minimum  tariff.  After  he 
had  eaten  and  sent  a  message  to  Fortinbras  at  the 
new  address  given  him  by  Bigourdin,  he  went  out  into 
the  crisp,  exhilarating  air,  with  Paris  and  all  the 
universe  before  him. 

In  the  queer  profession  into  which  he  had  drifted. 
Heaven  knows  how,  of  giving  intimate  counsel,  not 
only  to  the  students,  but  (as  his  reputation  spread)  to 
the  small  shopkeepers  and  workpeople  of  the  rive 
gauche,  at  his  invariable  fee  of  live  francs  per 
consultation,  Fortinbras  had  been  able  to  take  a 
detached  view  of  human  problems.  In  their  solution 
he  could  forget  the  ever  frightening  problem  of  his 
own  existence,  and  find  a  subdued  delight.  Only  in 
the  case  of  Corinna  and  Martin  had  he  posed  othermse 
than  as  an  impersonal  intelligence.  As  an  experiment 
he  had  brought  them  into  touch  with  his  own  personal 
concerns.     And  now  there  was  the  devil  to  pay. 

For  consider.  Here  he  was  prepared  to  deal  out 
advice  to  Martin  according  to  the  conspiracy  into 
which  he  had  entered  with  Bigourdin.  ]\Iartin  was  to 
purchase  an  interest  in  the  Hotel  des  Grottes  and 
(although  he  knew  it  not)  marry  Felise.  There  could 
not  have  been  a  closer  family  arrangement. 

When  Fortinbras  rose  from  the  frosty  terrasse  of  the 


238  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Cafe  Cardinal,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Richelieu  and 
the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  their  appointed  rendezvous, 
and  greeted  Martin,  there  was  something  more  than 
benevolent  in  his  smile,  something  paternal  in  his 
handshake.  They  entered  the  cafe-restaurant  and 
sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables  not  yet  laid  for  dejeuner, 
for  it  was  only  eleven  o'clock.  Fortinbras,  attired  in 
his  customary  black,  looked  more  trim,  more  pros- 
perous. Collar,  cuffs,  and  tie  were  of  an  impeccable 
whiteness.  The  silk  hat  which  he  hung  with  scrupulous 
care  on  the  peg  against  the  wall  was  startlingly  new. 
He  looked  like  a  disguised  cardinal  in  easy  circum- 
stances. He  made  bland  inquiries  as  to  the  health  of 
the  good  folk  at  Brantome,  and  ordered  an  aperitif 
for  Martin  and  black-currant  syrup  and  water  for 
himself.     Then  Martin  said  : 

"  I  have  come  from  Brantome  to  consult  you  on  a 
matter  of  the  utmost  importance — to  myself,  of 
course.     It's  a  question  of  my  whole  future." 

He  laid  a  five-franc  piece  on  the  table.  Fortinbras 
pushed  the  coin  back. 

"My  dear  boy,  this  is  a  family  affair.  I  know  all 
about  it.  For  you  Fm  no  longer  the  Marchand  de 
Bonheur." 

"  If  you're  not,"  said  Martin,  "  I  don't  know  what 
the  devil  I  shall  do."  And  with  his  finger  he  flicked 
the  coin  midway  between  them. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Fortinbras,  flicking  the  coin 
an  inch  towards  Martin,  "  if  you  so  desire  it,  I  will 
deal  with  you  in  my  professional  capacity.  But  as  in 
the  case  of  the  solicitor  or  the  doctor  it  would  be 
unprofessional  to  accept  fees  for  the  settlement  of  his 
own  family  affairs,  so,  in  this  matter,  I  am  unable  to 
accept  a  fee  from  you.  Bigourdin,  whose  character 
you  have  had  an  intimate  opportunity  of  judging,  has 
offered  you  a  share  in  his  business.  As  a  lawyer  and 
a  man  of  the  world,  I  say  unhesitatingly,  '  Accept  it.' 
As  long  as  Brantome  lasts — and  there  are  no  signs  of 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  239 

it  perishing — commercial  travellers  and  tourists  will 
visit  it  and  go  to  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  And  as  long 
as  European  civilization  lasts,  it  will  demand  the 
gastronomic  dehcacies  of  truffles,  pate  de  foie  gyas, 
Perigord  pie,  stuffed  quails,  and  compote  of  currants 
which  now  find  their  way  from  the  fabrique  of  the 
hotel  to  Calcutta,  Moscow,  San  Francisco,  Bayswater, 
and  Buenos  Ayres.  As  a  Marchand  de  Bonheiir,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  call  me,  I  also  unhesitatingly  affirm 
that  in  your  acceptance  you  will  find  true  happiness." 

He  sipped  his  cassis  and  water,  and  leaned  back  on 
the  plush-covered  seat.  Martin  pushed  the  five-franc 
piece  three  or  four  inches  towards  Fortinbras. 

"  It  isn't  such  a  simple,  straightforward  matter  as 
you  seem  to  imagine,"  said  Martin.  "  Otherwise  1 
should  have  closed  with  Bigourdin's  generous  offer 
straight  away.  I'm  not  a  fool.  And  I'm  devotedly 
attached  to  Bigourdin,  who,  for  no  reason  that  I  can 
see,  save  his  own  goodness  of  heart,  has  treated  me 
like  a  brother.  I  haven't  come  to  consult  you  as  a 
man  of  business  at  all.  And  as  for  conscientious 
scruples  about  Bigourdin  being  a  relative  of  yours, 
please  put  them  away."  He  pushed  the  coin  another 
inch.  "It  is  solely  as  Marchand  de  Bonheur,  in  the 
greatest  crisis  of  my  fife,  when  I'm  torn  to  pieces  by 
all  sorts  of  conflicting  emotions,  that  I  want  to  consult 
you.  There  are  comphcations  you  know  nothing 
about." 

"  Comphcations  ?  "  Fortinbras  stretched  out  a 
benign  hand.  "  Is  it  possible  that  there  is  some  httle 
— what  shaU  we  say  ? — sentiment  ?  "  He  smiled, 
seeing  the  young  man's  love  for  Fehse  barring  his 
candid  way.     "  You  can  be  frank  with  me." 

"  It's  a  damned  sight  more  than  sentiment,"  cried 
Martin  with  unprecedented  explosiveness.  "  Read 
this." 

He  dragged  from  his  pocket  a  dirty,  creased  and 
crumpled  letter,  and  threw  it  across  the  table.     Fortin- 


240  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

bras  adjusted  his  glasses  and  read  the  imp-inspired 
message.  He  took  off  his  glasses  and  handed  back  the 
letter.  His  face  became  impassive,  and  he  regarded 
]\Iartin  with  expressionless,  tired,  blue  eyes. 

"  Your  promise.     What  was  tliat  ?  " 

"  To  go  to  Egypt." 

"  Why  should  you  go  to  Egypt  to  meet  Lucille 
Merriton  ?  " 

Martin  threw  up  both  hands  in  a  wide  gesture. 
"  Can't  you  see  ?  Em  mad  to  go  to  Egypt,  or  Cape 
Horn,  or  Hell,  to  meet  her.  But  I've  enough  sanity 
left  to  come  here  and  consult  you." 

Fortinbras  regarded  him  lixedly,  and  nodded  his 
head  reflectively  many  times  ;  and  without  taking  his 
eyes  off  him  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  five-franc 
piece,  which  he  slipped  into  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"  That  puts,"  said  he,  "  an  entirely  different  com- 
plexion on  the  matter." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  astute  conspiracy  had  tumbled  to  ruins,  the 
kej'Stone,  Felise,  being  knocked  out.  It  was  no  longer 
a  family  affair.  Fortinbras  listened  to  the  young 
man's  statement  of  his  case  with  professional  detach- 
ment. His  practised  wit  questioned.  Martin  replied 
until  he  had  laid  bare  his  candid  and  intoxicated  soul. 
At  last  Fortinbras,  with  a  wave  of  his  plump  hand, 
and  with  his  benevolent  smile,  said  : 

"  Let  us  now  adjourn  from  labour  to  refreshment. 
I  will  give  myself  a  luxury  I  have  not  enjoyed  for 
many  a  year.  I  will  entertain  a  guest.  You  shall 
lunch  with  me.  When  our  spirits  are  fortified  and 
our  judgments  mellowed  by  generous  food,  we  shall 
adjourn  from  refreshment  to  labour.  Sometimes  you 
can  put  a  iive-franc  piece  into  the  slot  and  pull  out  an 
opinion.  Sometimes  you  can't.  Let  us  go  to  another 
table." 

They  lunched.  Fortinbras  talked  of  men  and  things 
and  books.  He  played  the  perfect  host  until  the  first 
cigarette  had  been  smoked.  Then  he  lay  back  in  the 
upholstered  seat  against  the  wall  and  looked  into 
vacancy,  Ms  face  a  mask.  Martin,  sitting  by  his  side, 
dared  not  disturb  him.  He  felt  like  one  in  the  awe- 
inspiring  presence  of  an  oracle.  Presently  the  oracle 
stirred,  shifted  his  position  and  resumed  human 
semblance,  the  smile  reappearing  in  his  eyes  and  at  the 
corners  of  his  pursy  mouth. 

"  My  dear  Martin,"  said  he,  one  elbow  on  the  table 
and  the  hand  caressing  his  white  hair,  "  I  have  now 
fully  considered  the  question,  and  see  distinctly  your 

-41  Q 


242  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

path  to  happiness.  As  my  good  old  friend  Montaigne 
says — an  author  I  once  advised  you  to  cultivate " 

"  I've  done  so,"  said  Martin. 

Fortinbras  beamed.  "  There  is  none  richer  in 
humanity.  In  his  words,  I  say,  '  The  wisdom  of  my 
instruction  consists  in  liberty  and  naked  truth.'  I 
take  the  human  soul  as  it  is  and  seek  to  strip  it  free 
from  shackles  and  disguises.  I  strip  yours  from  the 
shackles  of  gross  material  welfare  and  the  travesty  of 
content.  I  see  it  ardent  in  the  pursuit,  perhaps  of  the 
unattainable,  but  at  any  rate  in  the  pursuit  of  splen- 
dour, which  is  a  splendid  thing  for  the  soul.  Liberty 
and  naked  truth  are  the  only  watchwords.  Sell  out 
some  of  your  capital,  equip  yourself  in  lordly  raiment, 
go  to  Egypt  and  give  your  soul  a  chance." 

"  I  needn't  tell  you,"  said  Martin,  after  a  pause, 
"  that  I  was  hoping  you  would  give  me  this  advice. 
It  seems  all  crazy.  But  stiU — "  He  lit  a  cigarette, 
which  during  Fortinbras's  discourse  he  had  been 
holding  in  his  fingers.  "  Well — there  it  is.  I  don't 
seem  to  care  a  hang  what  happens  to  me  afterwards." 

"  From  my  professional  point  of  view,"  said  Fortin- 
bras, "  that  is  an  ideal  state  of  mind." 

"  AU  the  same,  I  can't  help  feeling  a  brute.  What 
the  devil  can  I  say  to  Bigourdin  ?  " 

"  You  can  leave  that  to  me,"  replied  Fortinbras. 
"  He  is  aware  that  you  are  a  client  of  mine,  and  not 
only  honour  me  with  your  confidence,  but  are  willing 
to  be  guided  by  my  counsel.  If  you  will  accept  my 
society,  I  will  accompany  you  to  the  Land  of  the 
Pharaohs " 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Martin,  taken  aback.  "  You  ? 
Good  God  !  Of  course,"  he  added,  after  recovery, 
"  I  should  love  you  to  come." 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  Fortinbras  continued,  "  I  will 
accompany  you,  take  upon  my  shoulders  your  responsi- 
bilities with  regard  to  Bigourdin,  and,  for  my  own 
private   satisfaction,    realize   the   dream    of   my   life, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  243 

which  is  to  go  up  to  the  Sphinx  and  say,  '  Now,  my 
dear  creature,  confidentially  as  between  Augur  and 
-Augur,  what  the  deuce  is  it  all  about  ?  '  " 

Later,  when  Martin  had  accustomed  himself  to  the 
;amazing  proposal,  they  discussed  ways  and  means. 

"  You,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  in  order  to  drink  the 
•deep  draughts  essential  to  your  evolution,  must  pea- 
'€Ock  it  with  the  best.  You  must  dwell  in  palaces  and 
4rive  in  chariots.  I,  on  the  other  hand,  journeying  as 
.u  philosopher,  need  but  a  palm-tree's  shade,  a  handful 
«of  dates,  and  a  cup  of  water.  I  shall  therefore  not  be 
•of  your  revellings.  But  I  shall  always  be  near  at  hand, 
a  sort  of  private  djinn,  always  at  your  distinguished 
•service." 

"  It's  most  delightful  and  generous  of  you  to  put  it 
that  way,"  laughed  Martin,  "  but  for  the  life  of  me  I 
can't  see  why  you  should  do  it." 

Fortinbras  replied  simply  :  "  I'm  a  very  weary  man, 
my  dear  boy,  and  my  heart  needs  a  holiday.  That  is 
why  I  grasp  this  opportunity  of  going  into  the  sun- 
shine. As  to  my  oifer  of  counsel,  that  is  a  matter 
which  it  would  be  futile  to  discuss." 

His  last  words  were  flavoured  with  mystery.  As  far 
as  Martin  was  concerned,  Fortinbras  was  free  to  go 
whithersoever  he  pleased.  But  why  this  solicitude 
as  to  his  welfare,  this  self-made  Slave  of  the  Lamp 
•obligation  ?  Soon  he  gave  up  the  riddle.  Too  many 
exciting  thoughts  swept  his  brain. 

Until  it  was  written,  the  letter  to  Bigourdin  weighed 
on  his  mind.  The  problem  confronting  him  was  to 
•explain  his  refusal  without  reference  to  Lucilla.  To 
Fortinbras,  keeper  of  his  conscience,  he  could  avow  his 
splendid  lunacy  and  be  understood.  To  Bigourdin  his 
Enghsh  reserve  forbade  his  writing  himself  down  an 
ass  and  saying  :  "  The  greasy  waiter  cannot  accept 
partnership  with  you,  as  he  must  follow  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  the  radiant  lady  to  whom  he  handed  the 
mutton  cutlets."     The  more  he  tried  the  less  could  he 


244  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

do  it.  He  sat  up  all  night  over  the  letter.  It  con- 
tained all  the  heart  of  him  that  was  left  for  the  Hotel 
des  Grottes  and  Brantome  and  Perigord  ;  but — well — 
he  had  arranged  to  abide  by  Fortinbras's  decision. 
Fortinbras  had  advised  him  to  see  more  of  the  world 
before  definitely  settling  his  life.  With  a  disin- 
genuousness  M^hich  stabbed  his  conscience,  he  threw 
the  responsibility  on  Fortinbras.  Fortinbras  was 
carrying  him  to  Egypt  on  an  attempt  to  solve  the 
riddle  of  the  Sphinx.  Bigourdin  knew  the  utter  faith 
he  had  in  Fortinbras.  He  sent  his  affectionate  regards 
to  everybody — and  to  Felise.  It  was  the  most  dreadful, 
heart-tearing  letter  he  had  ever  had  to  write. 

Meanwhile,  Fortinbras,  betraying,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  professional  secrecy,  revealed  the  whole 
matter  to  Bigourdin  in  an  illuminating  document. 
And  Bigourdin,  reading  it,  and  comparing  it  with 
Martin's  letter,  said:  "  Bigre  !  "  and  "  Sacrehleul  " 
and  "  Nom  de  Dieu  de  nam  deDieii!"  and  all  sorts  of 
other  things.  At  first  he  frowned  incredulously.  But 
on  every  reperusal  of  the  letter  the  frown  grew  fainter, 
until,  after  the  fifth,  the  placid  smile  of  faith  overspread 
his  broad  countenance.  But  Fehse,  who  was  only 
told  that  Martin  was  not  returning,  but  had  gone  to 
Egypt  with  her  father,  grew  white  and  thin-lipped,  and 
hated  the  day  she  had  met  Lucilla  Merriton  and  all  the 
days  she  had  spent  with  Lucilla  Meniton,  and,  in  a 
passion  of  tears,  heaped  together  everything  that 
Lucilla  Merriton  had  ever  given  her,  gowns  and  furs 
and  underlinen  and  trinkets,  in  a  big  trunk  which  she 
stowed  away  in  an  attic.  And  the  plongeur  from  the 
Caf6  de  I'Univers  was  appointed  waiter  in  Martin's 
stead,  and  strutted  about  proudly  in  Martin's  cast-off 
raiment.  He  was  perhaps  the  most  care-free  person 
in  the  Hotel  des  Grottes. 

Martin  went  on  a  flying  visit  to  London,  and  on  the 
advice  of  Fortinbras  put  up  at  the  Savoy. 

"  Accustom  yourself  to  lordliness,"  the  latter  had 


THE  \\'ONDERFUL  YEAR  245 

counselled.  "  You  can't  conquer  Egypt  with  the  self- 
effacing  humility  of  the  servitor.  By  rubbing  shoulders 
with  the  wealthy  you  will  acquire  that  suspicion  of 
arrogance — the  whiff  of  garlic  in  the  salad — in  which 
your  present  demeanour  is  so  sadl}^  lacking.  You  will 
also  learn  by  observation  the  correct  wear  in  socks 
and  ties,  and  otherwise  steep  yourself  in  the  study  of 
indispensable  vanities." 

Martin  studied  conscientiously,  and  when  he  had 
satisfactorily  arranged  his  financial  affairs,  including 
the-  opening  of  a  banking  account  with  Messrs.  Thomas 
Cook  and  Son,  visited  tailors  and  haberdashers  and 
hatters  and  bootmakers,  ordering  all  the  things  he  had 
seen  worn  by  the  opulent  youth  of  the  Savoy  Hotel. 
If  he  had  stolen  the  money  to  pay  for  them,  or  if  he 
had  intended  to  depart  with  them  without  paying,  he 
could  not  have  experienced  a  more  terrifying  joy. 
Like  a  woman  clothes-starved  for  years,  who  has  been 
given  the  run  of  London  shops,  Martin  ran  sartorially 
mad.  He  saw  suitings,  hosiery,  shoes,  with  Lucilla's 
eye.  He  bought  himself  a  tie-pin,  a  thing  wliich  he 
had  never  possessed,  nor  dreamed  of  possessing,  in  his 
life  before  ;  and,  observing  that  an  exquisite  young 
Lothario  upon  whom  he  resolved  to  model  himself  did 
not  appear  with  the  same  tie-pin  on  two  consecutive 
days,  he  went  out  and  bought  another.  ]\Iodesty  and 
instinctive  breeding  saved  him  from  making  himself  a 
harlequin. 

In  the  midst  of  these  preoccupations  he  called,  by 
arrangement,  on  Corinna.  She  was  living  with  another 
girl  on  the  fifth  floor  of  a  liftless  block  of  fiats  in 
Wandsworth.  The  living-room  held  two  fairly  com- 
fortably. Three  sat  at  somewhat  close  quarters.  So 
when  Martin  arrived,  the  third,  Corinna's  mate,  after 
a  perfunctory  introduction,  disappeared  into  a  sort  of 
cupboard  that  served  her  as  a  bedroom. 

Corinna  looked  thin  and  ill  and  drawn,  and  her 
blouse  gaped  at  the  back,  and  her  fair  hair  exhibited 


246  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

the  ropiness  of  neglect.  The  furniture  of  the  room  was 
of  elementary  flimsiness.  Loose  newspapers,  pam- 
phlets, handbills,  made  it  as  untidy  as  Corinna's  hair,. 
As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  Martin  glanced  from  her 
to  her  surroundings  and  then  back  again  to  her. 

"  My  dear  Corinna,"  said  he,  putting  hat,  stick,  and 
gloves  on  a  bamboo  table,  "  what  on  earth  are  you 
doing  with  yourself  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  defiantly,  with  a  touch  of  haggard- 
ness. 

"  I  am  devoting  myself  to  the  Cause." 

Martin  wrinkled  a  puzzled  brow.     "  What  cause  ?  "" 

"  For  a  woman  there  is  only  one,"  said  Corinna. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Martin.     "  May  I  sit  down  ?  " 

"  Please  do." 

She  poked  a  tiny  fire  in  a  diminutive  tiled  grate^ 
while  he  selected  the  most  solid  of  the  bamboo  chairs. 
She  sat  on  a  stool  on  the  hearthrug. 

"  I  suppose  you're  anti-suffrage  like  any  other 
bigoted  reactionary,"  she  said. 

Martin  replied  truly  :  "I  haven't  worried  about  it 
one  way  or  the  other." 

She  turned  on  him  swiftly.  "  Then  you're  worse 
than  a  downright  opponent.  It's  just  the  contemp- 
tuous apathy  of  men  like  you  that  drive  us  mad." 

She  entered  upon  a  long  and  nervous  tirade,  trotting' 
out  the  old  arguments,  using  the  stock  phrases,  parrot- 
ing a  hundred  platform  speeches.  And  all  the  time, 
though  appearing  to  attack,  she  was  on  the  defensive, 
defiant,  desperate.  Martin  regarded  her  with  a  shocked 
expression.  Her  thin  blonde  beauty  was  being  pinched 
into  shrewishness. 

"  But,  my  dear  Corinna,"  said  he.  "  I've  come  to 
see  you,  as  an  old  friend.  I  just  want  to  know  how 
you're  getting  on.  What's  the  good  of  a  political 
argument  between  us  two  ?  You  may  be  wrong  or 
you  may  be  right.  I  haven't  studied  the  question. 
Let  us  drop  it  from  a  contentious  point  of  xiew.     Let 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  247 

us  meet  humanly.  Or  if  you  like,  let  us  tell  each  other 
the  outside  things  that  have  happened  to  us.  You 
haven't  even  asked  me  why  I'm  here.  You  haven't 
asked  after  FeUse,  or  Fortinbras,  or  Bigourdin."  He 
waxed  warm.  "  I've  just  come  from  Brantome. 
Surely  you  must  still  take  some  interest  in  them." 

Corinna  supported  herself  on  an  outspread  hand  on 
the  hearthrug. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  truth  ?  "  She 
held  him  with  her  pained  blue  eyes.  "  I  don't  take 
an  interest  in  any  damned  thing  in  God's  universe." 

"  May  I  smoke  ?  "  said  Martin.  He  lit  a  cigarette, 
after  having  offered  her  his  case,  which  she  waved  aside 
impatiently. 

"  If  that  is  so,"  said  he,  "  what  in  the  world  is  the 
meaning  of  all  the  stuff  you  have  just  been  talking  ?  " 
"  I  thought  you  had  the  sense  to  have  learned 
something  about  me.  How  otherwise  am  I  to  earn 
my  Uving  ?  We've  gone  over  the  ground  a  hundred 
times.  This  is  a  way,  anyhow,  and  it's  exciting.  It 
keeps  one  from  thinking  of  anything  else.  I've  been 
to  prison." 

Martin  gasped,  asked  her  if  she  hunger-struck. 
"  I  tried,  but  I  hadn't  the  pluck  or  the  hysteria. 
Isabel  Banditch  can  do  it."  She  lowered  her  voice 
and  waved  towards  her  concealed  companion.  "  I 
can't.  She  believes  in  the  whole  thing.  The  vote  will 
bring  along  the  millennium.  Once  we  have  the  power, 
men  are  going  to  be  as  good  as  httle  cherubs  terminating 
in  wings  round  their  necks.  Drink  will  disappear. 
Wives  shall  be  like  the  fruitful  soda-water  siphon  on 
the  sideboard,  and  there  will  be  no  more  struggle  for 
existence  and  no  more  woes.  Oh  !  the  earth  is  going 
to  be  a  devil  of  a  place  when  we've  finished  with  it." 
"  Do  you  talk  Hke  tliis  to  Miss  Banditch  ?  "  asked 
Mai-tin. 

She  smiled  for  the  first  time,  and  shook  her  head. 
"  On  the  whole  you're  rather  a  commonplace  person, 


248  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Martin,"  she  replied,  "  but  you  have  one  remarkable 
quahty.  You  always  seem  to  compel  me  to  tell  you 
the  truth.  I  don't  know  why.  Perhaps  it  is  just  to 
puzzle  you  and  annoy  you  and  hurt  you." 

"  Why  should  you  want  to  hurt  me  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  sat  with  her  hands 
clasping  her  knees.  "  Well — for  one  thing,  you  were 
my  intimate  companion  for  three  months,  and  never 
for  a  single  second  did  you  think  of  making  love  to  me. 
For  all  the  impression  I  made  on  you  I  might  have 
been  your  austere  maiden  aunt.  Sometimes  I've 
wanted  to  take  you  between  my  teeth  and  shake  you 
as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat.  Instead,  like  an  ass,  I've 
told  you  the  blatant  truth." 

"  That's  interesting,"  said  Martin  calmly.  "  But 
you  seem  to  want  to  hurt  everybody — those  who  don't 
faU  in  love  with  you  and  those  who  do.  You  hurt  our 
poor  old  Bigourdin,  and  he  hasn't  got  over  it." 

Corinna  looked  into  the  diminutive  fire.  "  I  suppose 
you  think  I  was  a  fool." 

"  I  can't  beheve  it  matters  to  you  what  I  think," 
said  Martin,  his  vanity  smarting  at  being  lashed  for  a 
Joseph  Andrews. 

"  It  doesn't.  But  you  tliink  me  a  fool  all  the  same. 
I'll  go  on  telling  you  the  truth."  She  flashed  a  glance 
at  him.  "  Bigourdin's  a  million  times  too  good  forme. 
I  should  have  led  him  a  beast  of  a  life.  He  has  had  a 
lucky  escape.   You  can  tell  him  that  when  you  go  back." 

"  I'm  not  going  back." 

"  What  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  start. 

He  repeated  his  statement  and  smiled  amiably, 

"  Fed  up  with  being  a  waiter  ?  I've  wondered  how 
long  you  could  stick  it.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
now  ?  As  a  polite  hostess,  I  suppose  I  should  have 
asked  that  when  you  first  came  into  the  room." 

"  I  did  expect  something  of  the  sort,"  Martin  con- 
fessed, "  until  you  declared  you  didn't  take  an  interest 
in  any  damned  thing." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  249 

Then  they  both  laughed.  Corinna  stretched  out  a 
hand.  "  Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  I've  been  standing 
nearly  all  day  in  front  of  the  tube  station,  dressed  in  a 
green,  mauve,  and  white  sandwich-board  and  selling 
newspapers,  and  I'm  dog-tired  and  miserable.  I  would 
ask  you  to  have  some  tea,  but  that  would  only  bring 
out  Isabel,  who  would  talk  our  heads  off.  Why  have 
you  left  Brantome  ?  " 

He  told  her  of  Bigourdin's  proposal  and  of  Fortin- 
bras's  counsel ;  but  he  made  no  reference  to  the 
flashing  of  the  divine  Lucilla  across  his  path.  Once  he 
had  confessed  to  her  the  kiss  of  the  onion-eating 
damsel  who  had  married  the  plumber.  She  had 
jested,  but  understood.  His  romantic  knight-errant 
passion  for  Lucilla  was  stars  above  her  comprehension. 
When  he  mentioned  the  fact  of  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Fortinbras,  Corinna  softened. 

"  Poor  little  Fehse  !  It  must  have  been  a  great 
sorrow  to  her.  I'll  write  to  her.  She's  a  dear  httle 
girl."  She  paused  for  a  few  moments.  "  Now,  look 
here,  Martin,"  she  said,  seizing  a  fragile  poker  and 
smiting  a  black  lump  of  coal  the  size  of  a  potato,  "  it 
strikes  me  that  as  fools  we're  very  much  in  the  same 
box.  We've  both  thrown  over  a  feather-bed  existence. 
I've  refused  to  marry  Bigourdin  and  incidentally  to 
run  the  Hotel  des  Grottes,  and  you  have  refused 
to  run  the  Hotel  des  Grottes  and  incidentally  to 
marry  Felise." 

"  There  was  never  any  question  of  my  marrying 
Felise,"  cried  Martin  hotly. 

She  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  waved  an  impatient 
arm. 

':>."  You  make  me  tired.     Have  you  a  grain  of  sense  in 
your  head  or  an  ounce  of  blood  in  your  body  ?  " 

Martin  also  rose.  "  And  5^ou  ?  "  he  countered. 
"  What  have  you  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  said  Corinna. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Martin  gathering  up  hat,  stick, 


250  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

and  gloves,  "  I  don't  see  why  we  should  continue  a 
futile  conversation." 

He  devoid  of  sense  and  blood  !  He  who  had  probed 
the  soul  of  Felise  and  found  therein  virgin  indifference  ! 
He  who  had  flung  aside  a  gross  temptation  !  He  who 
was  consumed  with  a  burning  passion  for  an  incom- 
parable goddess  !  A  chasm  thousands  of  miles  wide 
yawned  between  him  and  Corinna.  In  the  same  box, 
indeed  !  He  quivered  with  indignation.  She  regarded 
him  curiously   through  narrowed  eyes. 

"  I  do  believe,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that  I've  knocked 
some  sparks  out  of  you  at  last." 

"  You  would  knock  sparks  out  of  a  putty  dog," 
Martin  retorted  wTathfuUy. 

She  took  hat  and  stick  away  from  him  and  laid  them 
on  the  bamboo  table.  "  Don't  let  us  quarrel,"  she 
said  more  graciously.  "  Sit  down  again  and  finish 
your  story.  You  said  something  about  Egypt  and 
Fortinbras  going  with  you.  Why  Egypt  ?  " 
"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Martin. 

"  I  suppose  Fortinbras  pointed  a  prophetic  finger. 
'  There  lies  the  road  to  happiness.'  But  what  is  he 
doing  there  himself  ?  " 

"  He  is  going  to  talk  to  the  Sphinx,"  said  Martin. 
"  And  when  you've  spent  all  your  capital  in  riotous 
living,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,"  said  he. 
"  Well,  it's  your  business,  not  mine,"  said  Corinna. 
"  You're  lucky  to  be  able  to  get  out  of  this  beastly 
climate.     I  wish  I  could." 

They  talked  for  a  while  the  generalities  of  travel. 
Then  he  asked  her  to  dine  with  him  and  go  to  a  theatre. 
This  brought  her  back  to  herself.  She  couldn't.  She 
had  no  time.  All  her  evenings  were  taken  up  with 
meetings  which  she  had  to  attend.  And  she  hadn't  an 
evening  gown  fit  to  wear. 

"  I  would  rather  die  than  appear  in  a  blouse  and 
skirt  in  the  stalls  of  a  theatre." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  251 

"  We  can  go  to  the  pit  or  upper  circle,"  said  Martin, 
who  had  never  sat  in  the  stalls  in  his  life. 

But  she  decUned.  The  prodigal  in  the  pit  was  too 
ludicrous.  No.  She  was  conscientious.  She  had 
adopted  martyrdom  as  a  profession  ;  she  was  paid  for 
being  a  martyr  ;  and  to  martyrdom,  so  long  as  it 
didn't  include  voluntary  starvation,  she  would  stick 
until  she  could  find  a  pleasanter  and  more  lucrative 
means  of  livelihood. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  like  that,"  said 
Martin  in  his  sober  way,  "  but  how  can  you  call  yourself 
conscientious  when  you  take  these  people's  money 
without  believing  in  their  cause  ?  " 

"  Who  told  you  I  didn't  believe  in  it  ?  "  she  cried. 
"  Do  you  know  what  it  means  to  be  an  utterly  useless 
woman  ?  I  do.  I'm  one.  It  is  to  prevent  repUcas 
of  myself  in  the  next  generation  that  I  get  up  at  a 
public  meeting  and  bleat  out  '  Votes  for  Women,'  and 
get  ignominiously  chucked.     Can't  you  see  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Martin.  "  Your  attitude  is  too  Laodicean," 

"  What  ?  "  snapped  Corinna. 

"  It's  somewhere  in  the  Bible.  The  Laodiceans 
were  people  who  blew  both  hot  and  cold." 

"  My  father  found  scriptural  terms  for  me  much 
more  picturesque  than  that,"  said  Corinna,  with  a 
laugh. 

A  door  opened,  and  the  frozen,  blue-nosed  head  of 
Miss  Banditch  appeared. 

"I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  you,  Corinna,  but  are  we 
never  going  to  have  tea  ?  " 

Corinna  apologized.  Tea  was  prepared.  Miss  Ban- 
ditch  talked  on  the  One  and  Only  Topic.  Martin 
listened  politely.  During  a  pause,  while  he  stood 
offering  a  cup  for  Corinna  to  fill  for  the  second  time, 
she  remarked  casually  : 

"  By  the  way,  you  met  Miss  Merriton,  didn't  you  ?  " 

The  question  was  like  a  knock  on  the  head.  He 
nearly  dropped  the  cup. 


252  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Miss  Merriton  ?  " 

"  She's  a  friend  of  mine.  I  had  a  note  from  her  at 
Christmas  to  say  that  she  had  been  to  Brantome  and 
made  your  acquaintance,  and  had  carried  off  F6hse  to 
the  South  of  France.  \Vhv  haven't  3^ou  told  me  about 
her  ?  " 

Under  her  calm,  smiHng  gaze  he  felt  himself  grow 
hot  and  red  and  angry.     He  fenced. 

"  You  must  remember  my  position  in  Brantome." 

She  poured  the  milk  into  his  cup.  "  She  said  she 
was  going  to  Egypt.     Sugar  ?  " 

Miss  Banditch  resumed  her  argument.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  visit  was  intolerable.  As  soon  as  he 
could  swallow  his  tea,  he  took  his  leave.  Corinna 
followed  him  into  the  tiny  passage  by  the  flat-door. 

"  My  dear  old  i\Iartin,"  she  said,  impulsively  throw- 
ing an  arm  round  him  and  gripping  his  shoulder.  "  I'm 
a  beast,  and  a  brute,  and  I  hate  everybody  and  every- 
thing in  this  infernal  world.  But  I  do  wish  you  the 
very  best  of  good  luck." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  with  both  hands  thrust 
him  gently  forth  ;  then  quickly  she  closed  the  door  all 
but  a  few  inches  behind  him,  and  through  the  slit  she 
cried  : 

"  Give  my  love  to  Lucilla  !  " 

The  door  banged,  and  Martin  descended  the  five 
flights  of  stairs,  lost  in  the  maze  of  the  Eternal 
Feminine. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Cairo  station.  An  illumination  of  livid  blue.  A 
horde  of  brown-legged  turbaned  figures  wearing  red 
jerseys  on  which  flaunted  in  white  the  names  of  hotels, 
and  reconstructing  Babel.  An  urbane  ofhcial,  lifting 
a  gold-banded  cap  in  the  middle  of  a  small  oasis  of 
silence,  and  inviting  Martin,  in  the  name  of  the  Semi- 
ramis  Hotel,  to  surrender  luggage  and  all  other  cares 
to  liis  keeping,  and  to  follow  the  stream  through  the 
exit  to  the  hotel  motor.  A  phantasmagoria  of  East 
and  West  rendered  more  fantastic  by  the  shadows  cast 
by  the  high  arc-lamps.  He  had  lost  sight  of  Fortinbras, 
who,  bag  in  hand — his  impedimenta  being  of  the 
scantiest — had  disappeared  in  quest  of  the  palm-tree 
against  whose  trunk  he  presumably  was  to  pass  the 
night.  Martin  emerged  from  the  station,  entered  the 
automobile,  one  of  a  long  row,  and  waited  with  his 
fellow-passengers  until  the  roof  was  stacked  with 
luggage.  Then  the  drive  through  European  streets 
suggestive  of  Paris,  and  the  sudden  halt  at  the  hotel. 
A  dazzUng  vision  of  a  lounge,  a  swift  upward  journey 
in  a  lift  worked  by  a  Nubian,  gorgeous  in  scarlet  and 
gold,  a  walk  down  a  corridor,  a  door  flung  open,  and 
Martin  found  himself  in  his  bedroom.  An  Arab 
brought  hot  water  and  retired. 

Martin  opened  the  shutters  of  the  window  and 
looked  out.  It  was  hard  moonlight.  Beneath  him 
shimmered  a  broad  ribbon  of  water,  against  which 
were  silhouetted  outlandish  masts  and  spars  of  craft 
moored  against  the  embankment.  The  dark  mass  on 
the  farther  shore  seemed  to  be  pleasant  woods.     The 

253 


254  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

water  could  be  nothing  else  than  the  Nile  ;  the  sacred 
river  ;  the  first  river  in  which  he  had  taken  a  romantic 
interest,  on  account  of  Moses  and  the  Ark  and  Pharaoh's 
daughter  ;  the  mighty  river  which  is  the  very  life  of  a 
vast  country  ;  the  most  famous  river  in  the  world. 
He  regarded  it  with  a  curious  mixture  of  awe  and 
disappointment.  On  his  right  it  was  crossed  by  a 
bridge  dotted  with  the  slowly  moving  lamps  of  carts, 
and  now  and  then  flashing  with  the  headHghts  of  a 
motor-car.  It  was  not  unHke  any  ordinary  river — the 
Thames,  the  Seine,  the  Rhone  at  Geneva.  He  had 
imagined  it  broad  as  the  Amazon. 

Yet  it  was  wonderful ;  the  historic  water,  the  moon- 
light, the  clear  Egyptian  air  in  which  floated  a  vague 
perfume  of  spice,  the  dimly  seen  long-robed  figures 
seated  on  a  bench  by  the  parapet  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  whose  guttural  talk  rose  like  a  proclamation 
of  the  Orient.  He  leaned  out  over  the  iron  railing. 
On  his  left  stood  out  dreamily  defined  against  the  sky 
two  shadowy  little  triangles.  He  wondered  what  they 
could  be.  Suddenly  came  the  shock  of  certainty. 
They  were  the  Pyramids.  Pie  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
looked  again.  A  thrill  ran  over  his  skin.  He  had  not 
counted  on  being  brought  up  bang,  as  it  were,  against 
them.  He  had  imagined  that  one  journeyed  for  half 
a  day  on  a  camel  through  a  trackless  desert  in  order 
to  visit  these  wonders  of  the  world  :  but  here  he  was 
staring  at  them  from  the  hotel  window  of  a  luxurious 
capital.  He  stared  at  them  for  a  long  time.  Yes  : 
there  was  the  Nile  ;  there  were  the  Pyramids  ;  and, 
after  a  knock  at  the  door,  there  was  his  luggage.  He 
became  conscious  of  hunger ;  also  of  Lucilla,  more 
splendid  than  moordit  Nile  and  Pyramids  and  all  the 
splendours  of  Egypt  put  together.  Hunger — it  was 
half-past  nine,  and  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  lunch 
on  ship-board — counselled  speedy  ablutions  and  a 
descent  in  quest  of  food.  Lucilla  ordained  correctitude 
of  vesture.     His  first  evening  on  board  sliip  had  taught 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  255 

him  that  dinner-jacket  suit  and  black  tie  were  the  only 
wear.     He  changed  and  went  downstairs. 

A  chasseur  informed  him  that  Miss  Merriton  was 
staying  in  the  hotel,  but  that  she  had  gone  to  the  dance 
at  the  Savoy.  When  would  she  be  back  ?  The 
chasseur,  a  child  rendered  old  by  accumulated  know- 
ledge of  trivial  fact,  replied  that  Cairo  was  very  gay 
this  season,  that  dances  went  on  till  the  morning  hours, 
and  insinuated  that  Miss  Merriton  was  as  gay  as 
anybody.  Martin  walked  through  the  lounge  into  the 
restaurant  and  supped.  He  supped  exceedingly  well. 
Bearing  in  mind  Fortinbras's  counsel  of  lordliness  and 
the  wa3^s  of  lordly  motorists  passing  through  Brantome, 
he  ordered  a  pint  of  champagne.  He  was  served  by 
an  impeccable  waiter  with  lilac  revers  and  brass 
buttons  to  his  coat.  He  noted  the  livery  with  a 
professional  eye.  The  restaurant  was  comparatively 
empty.  Only  at  one  table  sat  a  party  of  correctly 
dressed  men  and  women.  A  few  others  were  occupied 
by  his  travelling  companions,  still  in  the  garb  of 
travel.  Martin,  mellowed  by  the  champagne,  adjusted 
his  black  tie  and  preened  his  wliite  shirt-front,  in  the 
hope  that  the  tweed-clad  new-comers  would  see  him 
and  marvel  and  learn  from  him,  Martin  Overshaw, 
obscure  and  ignorant  adventurer,  what  was  required 
by  English  decorum.  After  his  meal  he  sat  in  the 
lounge  and  ordered  Turkish  coffee,  liqueur  brandy,  and 
cigarettes.  And  so,  luxuriously  housed,  clothed,  and 
fed,  he  entered  on  the  newest  phase  of  his  new  life. 

Six  months  ago  he  had  considered  his  sportive  ride 
through  France  with  Corinna  a  thrilhng  adventure. 
He  smiled  at  his  simplicity.  An  adventure,  that  tame 
jog-trot  tour !  As  comparable  to  this  as  his  then 
companion  to  the  radiant  lady  of  his  present  quest. 
Now,  indeed,  he  had  burned  his  boats,  thrown  his  cap 
over  the  windmills,  cast  his  frock  to  the  nettles  The 
reckless  folly  of  it  all  had  kept  his  veins  a-tingle,  his 
head  awhirl.     At  every  moment  during  the  past  fort- 


256  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

night  something  amazingly  new  had  flashed  into  his 
horizon.  The  very  sleeping-berth  in  the  train  dt  luxe 
had  been  a  fresh  experience.  So  too  was  the  awaken- 
ing to  the  Avarmth  and  sunshine  of  Marseilles.  Save 
for  a  crowded  hour  of  inglorious  Hfe  (he  was  a  poor 
sailor)  now  and  then  on  cross-Channel  boats  he  had 
never  set  foot  on  a  ship.  He  wandered  about  the 
ocean-going  liner  with  a  child's  delight.  Fortune 
favoured  him  with  a  spell  of  blue  weather.  He  scoffed 
at  sea-sickness.  The  meals,  characterized  by  many 
passengers  as  abominable,  he  devoured  as  though  they 
were  Lucullian  feasts.  He  made  acquaintance  with 
folk  going  not  only  to  Egypt,  but  to  Peshawar  and 
Mandalay  and  Singapore  and  other  places  with  haunting 
names.  Some  shocked  him  by  calling  them  God- 
forsaken holes  and  cursing  their  luck.  Others,  mainly 
women,  going  thither  for  the  first  time,  shared  his 
emotions.  .  .  .  He  was  surprised  at  the  ease  with 
which  he  fell  into  casual  talk  with  strangers.  Some- 
times a  child  was  a  means  of  introduction  to  its  mother. 
Sometimes  a  woman  in  the  next  deck-chair  would  open 
a  conversation.  Sometimes  Fortinbras,  chatting  with 
a  knot  of  people,  would  catch  him  as  he  passed  and 
present  him  blandly. 

Among  the  minor  things  that  gave  him  cause  for 
wonder  was  the  swift  popularity  of  his  companion.  No 
longer  did  his  costume  stamp  Fortinbras  as  a  man 
apart  from  the  laity.  He  wore  the  easy  tweeds  and 
soft  felt  hat  of  a  score  of  other  elderly  gentlemen  on 
board :  even  the  gold  watch-chain,  which  he  had 
redeemed  after  a  long,  long  sojourn  at  the  Mount  of 
Pity.  But  this  very  commonplace  of  his  attire 
brought  into  relief  the  nobility  of  his  appearance.  His 
massive  face  lined  with  care,  liis  broad  brow,  his 
prominent  light  blue  kindly  eyes,  his  pursy  and 
benevolent  mouth,  his  magnificent  Abbe  Liszt  shock 
of  white  hair,  now  carefully  tended,  his  impressive  air 
of  dignit}^ — all  marked  him  as  a  personage  of  distinc- 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  257 

tion.  He  aroused  the  idle  curiosity  of  the  idle  voyagers. 
Husbands  were  bidden  by  wives  to  talk  to  him  and 
see  what  he  was  like.  Husbands  obeyed,  as  is  the 
human  though  marriage- vow-subversive  way  of  hus- 
bands, and  meekly  returned  with  information.  A 
capital  fellow ;  most  interesting  chap ;  EngHsh  of 
course  ;  very  courtly  old  bird  ;  like  So-and-so  who  was 
ambassador ;  old  school ;  knows  everything ;  talks 
like  a  book.  Quoth  any  one  of  the  wives,  her  woman's 
mind  intent  on  the  particular :  "  But  who  is  he  ?  " 
the  careless  husband,  his  masculine  mind  merely 
concerned  with  the  general,  did  not  know.  He  had 
not  thought  of  asking.  How  could  he  ask  ?  And 
what  did  it  matter  ?  The  wife  sighed.  "  Bring  him 
along  and  I  will  soon  find  out."  Fortinbras  at  fit 
opportunity  was  brought  along.  The  lady  uncon- 
sciously surrendered  to  his  spell — one  has  not  practised 
as  a  marchand  de  bonheur  for  nothing.  "  Now  I  know 
all  about  him,"  said  any  one  of  the  wives  to  any  one 
of  the  husbands.  "  Why  are  men  so  stupid  ?  He  is 
an  old  Winchester  boy.  He  is  a  retired  philosopher 
and  he  lives  in  France."  That  was  all  she  learned 
about  Fortinbras  ;  but  Fortinbras  in  that  trial  inter- 
view learned  everything  about  the  lady  serenely 
unconscious  of  intimate  avowal. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  he  to  Martin,  "  the  secret 
of  social  influence  is  to  present  yourself  to  each  indi- 
vidual rather  as  a  sympathetic  intelligence  than  as  a 
forceful  personality.  The  patient  takes  no  interest  in 
the  morbid  symptoms  of  his  physician  :  but  every 
patient  is  eager  to  discuss  his  symptoms  with  the 
kindly  physician  who  will  listen  to  them  free,  gratis, 
and  for  nothing.  By  adopting  this  attitude  I  can 
evoke  from  one  the  dramatic  ambitions  of  her  secret 
heart,  from  another  the  history  of  her  childi'en's 
ailments  and  the  recipe  for  the  family  cough-cure,  from 
a  third  the  moving  story  of  strained  relations  with  his 
parents  because  he  desired  to  marry  his  uncle's  typist, 


2  58  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

the  elderly  crown  and  glory  of  her  sex,  and  from  a 
fourth  an  intricate  account  of  a  peculiarly  shady  deal 
in  lard." 

"  That  sounds  all  right,"  said  Martin ;  "  but  in 
order  to  get  people  to  talk  to  you — say  in  the  four 
cases  you  have  mentioned,  you  must  know  something 
about  the  theatre,  bronchitis,  love,  and  the  lard  trade." 

Said  Fortinbras,  touching  the  young  man's  shoulder  : 

"  The  experienced  altruist  with  an  eye  to  his  own 
advantage  knows  something  about  everything." 

Martin,  following  the  precepts  of  his  mentor,  prac- 
tised the  arts  of  fence,  parrying  the  thrusts  of  personal 
questions  on  the  part  of  his  opponent  and  riposting 
with  such  questions  on  his  own. 

"It  is  necessary,"  said  the  sage.  "  What  are  you 
among  these  respectable  Britons  of  substance  but  an 
adventurer  ?  Put  yourself  at  the  mercy  of  one  of 
these  old  warriors  with  grey  motor-veils  and  steel 
knitting  needles,  and  she  will  pluck  out  the  heart  of 
your  mystery  in  a  jiify,  and  throw  it  on  the  deck  for 
all  to  feed  on." 

Thus  the  voyage— incidentally  was  it  not  to  Cythera  ? 
— transcended  all  his  dreams  of  social  amenity.  It  was 
a  long  protracted  party  in  which  he  lost  his  shyness, 
finding  frank  welcome  on  all  sides.  To  the  man  of 
thirty  who  had  been  deprived,  all  his  man's  life,  of  the 
commonplace  general  intercourse  with  his  kind,  this 
daily  talk  \^dth  a  girl  here,  a  young  married  woman 
there,  an  old  lady  somewhere  else,  and  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  in  the  smoking-room  and  on  deck, 
was  nothing  less  than  a  kind  of  social  debauch,  intoxi- 
cating him,  keeping  him  blissfully  awake  of  nights  in 
his  upper  berth,  while  Fortinbras  snored  below.  Then 
soon  after  daybreak,  to  mount  to  the  wet,  sunlit  deck 
after  his  cold  sea-water  bath  ;  perhaps  to  meet  a  hardy 
and  healthy  English  girl,  fresh  as  the  iEgean  morning  ; 
to  tramp  up  and  down  with  her  for  development  of 
appetite,  talking  of  nothing  but  the  glitter  of  the  sea. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  259 

the  stuffiness  of  cabins,  the  dishes  they  each  would 
choose  for  breakfast ;  to  descend  into  the  warm, 
comforting  smell  of  the  dining-saloon  ;  to  fall  vora- 
ciously on  porridge  and  eggs  and  kidneys  and  marma- 
lade ;  to  go  on  deck  again  knowing  that  in  a  couple  of 
hours'  time  stewards  would  come  to  him,  fainting  from 
hunger,  with  bowls  of  chicken  broth,  that  in  an  hour  or 
two  afterwards  there  would  be  lunch  to  be  selected 
from  a  menu  a  foot  long  in  close  print,  and  so  on 
during  the  golden  and  esurient  day  ;  to  meet  Fortinbras, 
late  and  luxurious  riser  ;  to  bask  for  an  hour,  like  a 
plum,  in  the  sunshine  of  his  wisdom  ;  to  continue  the 
debauch  of  the  day  before  ;  to  sight  great  sailing 
vessels  with  bellying  canvas,  resplendent  majesty  of 
past  centuries,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  the  grey  grim 
blocks  of  battleships  ;  to  pass  the  sloping  shores  of 
historic  islands — Crete,  home  of  the  Minotaur,  whose 
inhabitants — (Cretans  are  liars ;  Cretans  are  men. 
Therefore  all  men  are  liars) — had  furnished  the  stock 
example  of  fallacy  in  the  syllogism  ;  to  watch  the 
green  wake  cleaving  the  dark  blue  sea  ;  to  make  his 
way  up  and  down  decks,  through  the  steerage,  and 
stand  in  the  bows,  swept  by  the  exhilarating  air,  with 
the  pulse-racking  sense  that  he  was  speeding  to  the 
lodestar  of  his  one  desire — to  find  wildness  of  delight 
in  these  commonplaces  of  travel ;  to  live  as  he  lived, 
to  vibrate  as  he  vibrated  with  every  nerve  from  dawn 
to  dawn,  to  be  drunk  with  the  sheer  ecstasy  of  existence, 
so  that  the  past  becomes  a  black  abyss  and  the  future 
an  amethystine  haze  glorified  by  the  Sons  of  the 
Morning  singing  for  joy  is  given  but  to  few,  is  given 
to  none  but  poor,  starved  souls,  is  given  to  none  of 
the  poor,  starved  souls  but  those  whom  the  high  gods 
in  obedience  to  their  throw  of  the  dice  happen  to 
select. 

Martin,  sitting  in  a  deep  arm-chair  in  the  Semiramis 
Hotel,  dreamed  of  all  these  tilings,  unconscious  of  the 
flight  of  time.     Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  he 


26o  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

was  the  only  occupant  of  the  lounge,  all  the  other  folk 
having  returned  soberly  to  their  rooms.  Already  a 
few  early  arrivals  from  the  Savoy  dance  passed  across 
the  outer  hall  on  their  way  to  the  lift.  Drowsy  with 
happiness  he  went  to  bed.     To-morrow,  Lucilla. 

He  became  aware  of  her  standing  by  the  bureau 
licking  a  stamp  to  put  on  a  letter.  She  wore  a  white 
coat  and  skirt  and  a  straw  hat  with  cherries  on  it.  He 
could  not  see  her  face,  but  he  guessed  the  blue  veins 
on  the  uplifted,  ungloved  hand  that  held  the  stamp. 
On  his  approach  she  turned  and  uttered  a  little  laughing 
gasp  of  recognition,  stuck  the  stamp  on  hastily  and 
stretched  out  her  hand. 

"Why,"  she  cried,  "  it's  you  !   You  really  have  come  !  " 

"  Did  you  think  I  would  break  my  promise  ?  "  he 
asked,  his  e^^es  drinking  in  her  beauty. 

"  I  didn't  know  how  seriously  you  regarded  it." 

"  I've  thought  of  nothing  but  Egypt  since  I  said  you 
had  pointed  out  the  way,"  he  replied.  "  You  com- 
manded.    I  obeyed." 

She  caught  up  her  long  parasol  and  gloves  that  lay 
on  the  ledge  of  the  bureau.  "  If  everybody  did  every- 
thing I  told  them,"  she  laughed,  "  I  should  have  my 
hands  full.  They  don't  as  a  general  rule,  but  when 
they  do  I  take  it  as  a  compliment.  It  makes  me  feel 
good  to  see  you.     When  did  you  come  ?  " 

She  put  him  through  a  short  catechism,  ^^^lat 
boat  ?  What  kind  of  vo^^age  ?  Where  was  he  stay- 
ing ?  .  .  .  Finally  : 

"  Do  you  know  many  people  in  Cairo  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul,"  said  Martin. 

With  both  arms  behind  her  back  she  rested  lightly 
on  the  parasol,  and  beamed  graciously. 

"  I  know  millions,"  she  said,  not  without  a  touch  of 
exaggeration  which  pleased  him.  "  Would  you  like  to 
trust  yourself  to  me,  put  yourself  entirely  in  my 
hands  ?  " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  261 

"  I  could  dream  of  nothing  more  enchanting," 
rephed  Martin.     "  But " 

"  But ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  myself  an  infliction." 

"  You're  going  to  be  a  delight.  You  know  in  the 
cinematograph  how  an  invisible  pencil  writes  things  on 
the  sheet — or  how  a  message  is  stamped  out  on  the 
tape,  and  you  look  and  wonder  what's  coming  next. 
Well,  I  want  to  see  how  this  country''  is  going  to  be 
stamped  letter  by  letter  on  your  virgin  mind.  It's  a 
thing  I've  been  longing  for — to  show  somebody,  with 
sense  like  370urself,  Egypt  of  the  Pharaohs  and  Egypt 
of  the  Enghsh.     How  long  can  you  stay  ?  " 

"  Indefinitely,"  said  Martin.     "  I  have  no  plans." 

"  From  here  you  might  go  to  Honolulu  or  Ran- 
goon ?  " 

"  Or  Greenland  or  Cape  Horn,"  said  Martin. 

She  nodded  smiling  approval.  "  That  is  what  I  call 
a  free  and  enlightened  Citizen  of  the  World.  Let  us 
sit  down.  I'm  waiting  for  my  friend,  Mrs.  Dangerfield 
of  Philadelphia.  Her  husband's  here  too.  You  will 
like  them.  I  generally  travel  round  with  somebody, 
just  for  the  sake  of  a  table-companion.  I'm  silly 
enough  to  feel  a  fool  eating  alone  every  day  in  a 
restaurant." 

He  drew  a  wicker  chair  for  her  and  sat  beside  her. 
She  deposited  parasol  and  gloves  on  the  little  round 
table,  and  swept  him  with  a  quizzical  glance  from  his 
weU-fitting  brown  shoes  to  his  trim  black  hair. 

"  May  I  without  impertinence  compliment  you  on 
your  colour-scheme  ?  " 

His  olive  cheek  flushed  like  a  girl's.  He  had  devoted 
an  hour's  concentrated  thought  to  it  before  he  rose. 
How  should  he  appear  in  the  presence  of  the  divinity  ? 
He  had  decided  on  grey  flannels,  grey  shirt,  purple 
socks  and  tie.  He  wondered  whether  she  gu'='.ssed  the 
part  she  had  pla3'ed  in  his  anxious  selection.  Remem- 
bering the  splotch  of  grease,  he  said  : 


262  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  I  hadn't  much  choice  of  clothes  when  you  last 
saw  me." 

She  laughed.  "  Tell  me  all  about  Brantome.  How 
is  my  dear  little  friend  Felise  ?  " 

He  gave  her  discreet  news.  "  And  the  incomparable 
Fortinbras  ?  " 

"  You'll  doubtless  soon  be  able  to  judge  for  yourself. 
He's  here." 

"  In  Cairo  ?     You  don't  say  !  " 

Mingled  with  her  expression  of  surprise  was  a  little 
perplexity  of  the  brow,  as  though,  seeing  the  Fortinbras 
of  the  Petit  Cornichon,  she  wondered  what  on  earth 
she  could  do  with  him. 

"  He  came  with  me,"  said  Martin. 

"  Is  he  staying  in  this  hotel  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Martin. 

Her  brow  grew  smooth  again.  "  How  did  he  manage 
to  get  all  this  way  ?     Has  he  retired  from  business  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.  He  needed  a  hohday.  You 
see  he  came  into  a  little  money  on  the  death  of  his 
wife." 

"  His  wife  dead  ?  "  Lucilla  queried.  "  F61ise's 
mother  ?  I  didn't  know.  Perhaps  that's  why  she 
hasn't  written  to  me  for  such  a  long  time.  I  think 
there  must  be  some  queer  story  connected  with  that 
mother,"  she  added  shrewdly.  "  Anyway,  Fortinbras 
can't  be  heart-broken,  or  he  wouldn't  come  on  a  jaunt 
to  Egypt." 

Too  well-bred  to  examine  Martin  on  his  friend's 
private  affairs,  she  changed  the  talk  in  her  quick 
imperious  way.  Martin  sat  like  a  man  bewitched, 
fascinated  by  her  remembered  beauties — the  lazy 
music  of  her  voice,  her  mobile  lips,  her  brown  eye- 
lashes. .  .  .  His  heart  beat  at  the  reahzation  of  so 
many  dreams.  He  listened,  his  brain  scarcely  following 
what  she  said  ;  that  she  spoke  with  the  tongue  of  an 
angel  was  enough. 

Presently  a  stout,  pleasant-faced  woman  of  thirty 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  263 

came  towards  them  with  many  apologies  for  lateness. 
This  was  Mrs.  Dangerfield.     Lucilla  presented  Martin. 

"  Behold  in  me  the  complete  dragoman.  Mr.  Over- 
shaw  has  engaged  me  for  the  season.  It's  his  first 
visit  to  Egypt,  and  I'm  going  to  show  him  round.  I'll 
draw  up  a  programme  for  a  personally  conducted  tour, 
every  hour  accounted  for  and  replete  with  distraction." 

"  It  sounds  dreadful,"  laughed  Mrs.  Dangerfield. 
"  Do  you  think  you'U  survive,  Mr.  Overshaw  ?  " 

"  Not  only  that,"  said  Martin,  "  but  I  hope  for  a  new 
lease  of  life." 

"  We  start,"  said  Lucilla,  "  with  a  drive  through  the 
town,  during  which  I  shall  point  out  the  Kasr-el-Nil 
Barracks,  the  Bank  of  Egypt,  and  the  Opera  House. 
Then  we  shall  enter  on  the  shopping  expedition  in  the 
Mousky,  where  I  shall  prevent  Mrs.  Dangerfield  from 
being  robbed  while  bargaining  for  Persian  lac.  I'm 
ready,  Laura,  if  you  are." 

She  led  the  way  out.  Martin,  exchanging  words  of 
commonplace  with  J\Irs.  Dangerfield,  followed  in  an 
ecstasy.  Did  ever  woman  outside  Botticelli's  Prinia- 
vera  walk  with  such  Ussomeness  ?  A  chasseur  turned 
the  four-flanged  doors,  and  they  emerged  into  the 
clear  morning  sunshine.  The  old  bearded  Arab 
carriage  porter  called  an  hotel  araheah  from  the  stand. 
But  while  the  driver,  correct  in  metal-buttoned  livery 
coat  and  tarbush,  was  dashing  up  with  his  pair,  Martin 
caught  sight  of  Fortinbras  walking  towards  them. 

"  There  he  is,"  said  Martin. 

"  W^ho  ?  " 

"  Fortinbras." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Lucilla.  "  That's  an  English 
Cabinet  Minister,  or  an  American  millionaire,  or  the 
keeper  of  a  gambling  saloon." 

But  when  he  came  nearer,  she  admitted  it  was 
Fortinbras.  She  waved  her  hand  in  recognition. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  charming  than  her 
greeting  ;    nothing  more  urbane  than  his  acknowledg- 


^ 


264  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

ment,  or  his  bow  on  introduction  to  Mrs.  Dangerfield. 
He  had  come,  said  he,  to  lay  his  respectful  homage  at 
her  feet ;  also  to  see  how  his  young  friend  was  faring  in 
a  strange  land.    Eucilla  asked  him  where  he  was  staying. 

"  "WTien  last  I  saw  you,"  he  answered,  "  I  said 
something  about  the  perch  of  the  old  vulture." 

She  e\^ed  him,  smihng  :  "  You  look  more  like  the 
wanton  lapwing." 

"  In  that  case  I  need  even  a  smaller  perch,  the 
merest  twig." 

"  But  '  Merest  Twig,  Cairo,'  isn't  an  address,"  cried 
Lucilla.  "  How  am  I  to  get  hold  of  you  when  I  want 
you  ?  " 

Fortinbras  regarded  her  with  humorous  benevo- 
lence. The  question  was  characteristic.  He  knew  her 
to  be  generous,  warm-hearted,  and  impatient  of  trivial 
convention  :  therefore  he  had  not  hesitated  to  go  to 
her  in  his  anxious  hour  ;  but  he  also  knew  how  those 
long  deHcate  fingers  had  an  irresistible  habit  of  drawing 
unwary  humans  into  her  harmless  web.  He  had  not 
come  to  Cairo  just  to  walk  into  Lucilla's  parlour.  He 
wanted  to  buzz  about  Egypt  in  philosophic  and 
economical  independence. 

"  That,  my  dear  Lucilla,"  said  he,  "  is  one  more 
enigma  to  be  put  to  the  credit  of  the  Land  of  Riddles." 

Ibrahim  stood  impassively  holding  open  the  door  of 
the  araheah.  A  couple  of  dragomans  in  resplendent 
robes  and  turbans,  seeing  a  new  and  prosperous 
English  tourist,  had  risen  from  their  bench  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road  and  lounged  gracefully  forward. 

"  You're  the  most  exasperating  person  I  ever  met," 
exclauned  Lucilla.  "  But  while  I  have  you,  I'm  going 
to  keep  you.  Come  to  lunch  at  one-fifteen.  If  you 
don't  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"I'll  come  to  lunch  at  one-fifteen,  with  very  great 
pleasure,"  said  Fortinbras. 

The  ladies  entered  the  carriage.     Martin  said  hastily  : 

"  You  gave  me  the  slip  last  night." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  265 

"  I  did,"  said  Fortinbras.  He  drew  the  young  man 
a  pace  aside,  and  whispered  :  "  You  think  those  are 
doves  harnessed  to  the  chariot.  They're  not.  They're 
horses." 

Martin  broke  away  with  a  laugh,  and  sprang  to  the 
back  seat  of  the  carriage.  It  drove  off.  The  drago- 
mans came  up  to  the  lonely  Fortinbras.  Did  he  want 
a  guide  ?  The  Citadel,  the  PjTamids,  Sakkara  ? 
Fortinbras  turned  to  the  impassive  Ibrahim,  and  in 
his  grand  manner  and  with  impressive  gesture  said  : 

"  Will  you  teU  them  they  are  too  beautiful.  They 
would  eclipse  the  splendour  of  all  the  monuments  I 
am  here  to  visit." 

He  walked  away  and  Ibrahim,  translating  roughly  to 
the  dragomans,  conveyed  uncomplimentary  references 
to  the  virtue  of  their  grandmothers. 

Meanwhile  Martin,  in  beatitude,  sat  on  the  httle 
seat  facing  his  goddess.  She  was  an  integral  part  of 
the  exotic  setting  of  Cairo.  It  was  less  real  life  than 
an  Arabian  Night's  tale.  She  v^-as  interfused  with 
all  the  sunshine  and  colour  and  wonder.  Only  the 
camels  padding  along  in  single  file,  their  bodies  half 
hidden  beneath  packs  of  coarse  grass,  seemed  alien  to 
her.  They  held  up  their  heads,  as  the  carriage  passed 
them,  with  a  damnably  supercilious  air.  One  of  them 
seemed  to  catch  his  eye  and  express  contempt  unfathom- 
able.    He  shook  a  fist  at  him. 

"  I  hate  those  brutes,"  said  he. 

"  Good  gracious  !  Why  ?  "  asked  Lucilla.  "  They're 
so  picturesque  !  A  camel  is  the  one  thing  I  really  can 
draw  properl}^" 

"  Well,  I  dislike  them  intensely,"  said  he.  "  They're 
inhuman." 

He  could  not  translate  his  unformulated  thought 
into  conventional  words.  But  he  knew  that  at  the 
summons  of  the  high  gods  aU  the  world  of  animate 
beings  would  faU  down  and  worship  her :  every 
breathing  thing  but  the  camel.     He  hated  the  camel. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

LuciLLA  kept  her  word.  She  was  not  a  woman  of  half 
measures.  Just  as  she  had  set  out,  impelled  by 
altruistic  fancy,  to  carry  provincial  little  Felise  through 
part  of  a  Riviera  season,  and  had  thoroughly  accom- 
plished her  object,  so  now  she  devoted  herself  whole- 
heartedly to  the  guidance  of  Martin  through  the  Land 
of  Egypt.  In  doing  so  she  was  conscious  of  helping 
the  world  along.  Hitherto  it  was  impeded  in  its 
progress  by  a  mild,  scholarly  gentleman  wasting  his 
potentialities  in  handing  soup  to  commercial  travellers. 
These  potentialities  she  had  decided  to  develop,  so 
that  in  due  season  a  new  force  might  be  evolved  which 
could  give  the  old  world  a  shove.  To  express  her 
motives  in  less  universal  terms,  she  set  herself  the 
holiday  task  of  making  a  man  of  him.  To  herself  she 
avowed  her  entire  disinterestedness.  She  had  often 
thought  of  adopting  and  training  a  child  ;  but  that 
would  take  a  prodigiously  long  time,  and  the  child 
might  complicate  her  future  life.  On  the  other  hand, 
with  grown  men  and  women  things  went  more  quickly. 
You  could  see  the  grass  grow.  The  swifter  process 
appealed  to  her  temperament. 

First  she  incorporated  him,  without  chance  of 
escape,  in  her  own  little  coterie,  the  Dangerfields,  and 
the  Watney-Holcombes,  father,  mother,  and  daughter, 
Americans  who  lived  in  Paris.  They  received  him, 
guaranteed  by  Lucilla  as  an  Englishman  without 
guile,   with  democratic  American  frankness.     Of  Mr. 

Dangerfield,  a  grim-featured  banker   possessing  a  dry 

266 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  267 

subrident  humour,  Martin  was  somewhat  afraid.  But 
with  the  Watney-Holcombes,  cheery,  pleasure-loving 
folk,  he  was  soon  at  his  ease. 

"  The  only  thing  3^ou  mustn't  do,"  said  Lucilla,  "  is 
to  fall  in  love  with  Maisie."  Maisie  was  a  slip  of  a 
girl  of  nineteen,  whom  he  regarded  as  an  amusing  and 
precocious  child.  "  There  is  already  a  young  man 
floating  about  in  the  smoke  of  St.  Louis." 

It  was  an  opportunity  to  make  romantic  repudiation, 
to  proclaim  the  faith  by  which  he  lived.  But  he  had 
not  yet  the  courage.  He  laughed,  and  declared  that 
the  smoky  young  man  might  sleep  peacefully  of  nights. 
The  damsel  herself  took  him  as  a  new  toy  and  played 
with  him  harmlessly  and,  subtly  inspired  by  Lucilla, 
commanded  her  father,  a  chubby,  innocent  man,  with 
a  face  like  a  red,  gold-spectacled  apple,  to  bring 
Martin  from  remote  meal  solitude  and  establish  him 
permanently  at  their  table.  Thus  Martin,  being  an 
accepted  member  of  a  joyous  company,  could  go  here, 
there,  and  everywhere  with  any  one  of  them  without 
furnishing  cause  for  gossip.  Lucilla  had  a  deft  way  of 
not  putting  herself  in  the  wrong  with  a  censorious 
though  charming  world.  Under  the  nominal  auspices 
of  the  Dangerfields  and  the  Watney-Holcombes,  Martin 
jningled  with  the  best  of  Cairo  society.  He  attended 
race-meetings,  golf-club  teas,  hotel  balls,  and  merry 
little  suppers.  He  went  to  a  reception  at  the  Agency 
and  shook  hands  Math  the  great  English  ruler  of 
Egypt.  He  was  swept  away  in  automobiles  to  Helouan 
and  Heliopolis,  to  the  Mena  House  to  see  the  Pyramids 
and  the  Sphinx  both  by  daylight  and  by  moonlight. 
A  young  soldier,  discovering  a  bond  in  knowledge  and 
love  of  France,  invited  him  to  Mess  on  a  guest-night. 
Lucilla,  ever  watchful  and  tactful,  saw  that  he  went  in 
full  dress,  white  tie  and  white  waistcoat,  and  not  in 
dinner-jacket.  She  pervaded  his  atmosphere,  teaching 
him,  training  him,  opening  up  new  vistas  for  his  mind 
and  soul.     Every  encomium  passed  on  him  she  accepted 


268  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

as  a  tribute  to  herself.  It  was  infinitely  more  interest- 
ing than  training  a  dog  or  a  horse. 

Martin,  blissfully  unaware  of  experiment,  or  even  of 
guidance,  lived  in  a  dream  of  delight.  His  goddess 
seemed  ever  ready  to  hand.  Together  they  visited 
mosques  and  spent  enchanted  hours  in  the  Bazaar. 
She  knew  her  way  about  the  labyrinth,  could  even 
speak  a  few  words  of  Arabic.  Supreme  fair  product  of 
the  West  she  stood  divinely  pure  amid  the  swarthy 
vividness  of  the  unalterable  East.  She  was  a  flawless 
jewel  in  the  barbaric  setting  of  those  narrow  streets, 
filled  with  guttural  noise,  outlandish  bustle  of  camels 
and  donkeys  and  white-clad  men,  smells  of  hoary 
spiciness,  colour  from  the  tattered  child's  purple  and 
scarlet  to  the  yellow  of  the  cinnamon  pounded  at 
doorways  in  the  three-foot  mortars ;  those  streets 
winding  in  short  joints,  each  given  up  to  its  particu- 
lar industry — copper-beaters,  brass-workers,  leather- 
sellers,  workers  in  cedar  and  mother-of-pearl,  sellers 
of  cakes  and  kabobs,  all  plying  their  trades  in  the 
frontless  caves  that  served  as  shops ;  streets  so 
narrow  and  sunless  that  one  could  see  but  a  slit  of 
blue  above  the  latticed  fronts  of  the  crazy  houses. 
He  loved  to  see  her  deal  with  the  supple  Orientals. 
In  bargaining  she  did  not  haggle  ;  \vith  smiling 
majesty  she  paid  into  the  long  slender  palm  a  third, 
or  a  half  or  two-thirds  of  the  price  demanded,  accord- 
ing to  her  infallible  sense  of  values,  and  walked 
away  serene  possessor  of  the  merchandise.  Lucilla, 
having  a  facile  memory,  had  not  boasted  in  vain  that 
she  could  play  dragoman.  He  found  from  the  books 
that  her  archaeological  information  was  correct ;  he 
drank  in  her  wisdom. 

For  his  benefit  she  ordained  a  general  expedition  to 
Sakkara.  One  golden  day  the  party  took  train  to 
Badrashen,  whence,  on  donkeys,  they  plunged  into  the 
desert.  Riding  in  front  with  him,  she  was  his  for  most 
of   that   golden   day ;   she  discoursed   on  i^the   colossal 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  269 

statue,  stretched  by  the  wayside,  of  Rameses  II,  on  the 
step  pyramid,  on  the  beauties  of  the  httie  tombs  of 
Thi  and  Ptah-Hetep,  whose  sculptures  and  paintings  of 
the  Fifth  Dynasty  were  ahve,  proceeding  direct  from 
the  soul  of  the  artist  and  thus  crying  shame  on  the 
conventional  imitations  of  a  thousand  or  two  years 
later  with  which  most  of  the  great  monuments  of 
Egypt  are  adorned.  And  all  she  said  was  Holy  Writ. 
And  at  Mariette's  House  where  they  lunched — the 
bungalow  pitched  in  the  middle  of  the  baking  desert 
and  overlooking  the  crumbling  brown  masses  of  tombs — 
he  glanced  around  at  their  picnicking  companions,  and 
marvelled  at  her  grace  in  eating  a  hard-boiled  egg.  It 
was  a  noisy,  excited  party,  and  it  was  "  Lucilla  this," 
and  "  Lucilla  that,"  aU  the  time,  for  there  was  hot 
argument. 

"  I  don't  take  any  stock  in  bulls,  so  I'm  not  going 
to  see  the  Serapeum,"  declared  Miss  Watney-Holcombe. 

"  But  Lucilla  says  you've  got  to,"  exclaimed  Martin. 
Then  he  realized  that  unconsciously  he  had  used  her 
Christian  name.  He  flushed,  and  under  cover  of  the 
talk  turned  to  her  with  an  apology.  He  met  laughing 
eyes. 

"  Scrubby  little  artists  in  Paris  call  me  Lucilla 
without  the  quiver  of  an  eyelash." 

"  \Vhat  may  be  permissible  to  a  scrubby  little  artist 
in  Paris,"  said  Martin,  "  mayn't  be  permitted  to  one 
who  ought  to  know  better." 

She  passed  him  a  plate  containing  the  last  banana. 
He  declined  with  a  courteous  gesture. 

"  Martin,"  she  said,  deliberately  dumping  the  fruit 
in  front  of  him,  "  if  you  don't  look  out,  you  will  die 
of  conscientiousness." 

During  part  of  the  blazing  ride  back  to  Badrashen, 
when  the  accidents  of  route  and  the  vagrom  whimsies 
of  donkeys  brought  him  to  the  side  of  the  dry  Mr. 
Dangerfield,  he  reflected  on  the  attitude  of  men 
admitted    to    the    intimacy    of    goddesses    and    great 


270  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

queens.  What  did  Leicester  call  the  August  Elizabeth 
when  she  deigned  to  lay  aside  her  majesty  ?  And 
what  were  the  sensations  of  Anchises,  father  of  pious 
iEneas,  when  he  first  addressed  Venus  by  her  petit 
nom  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Fortinbras  the  next  day,  "  and  how  is 
my  speculator  in  happiness  getting  on  ?  " 

They  were  sitting  on  the  terrace  of  Shepheard's 
Hotel,  their  usual  midday  meeting-place.  Save  on 
these  occasions  the  philosopher  seemed  to  live  dimly, 
in  a  sort  of  Oriental  twilight.  Yet  all  that  Martin  had 
seen  (with  the  exception  of  the  social  moving  picture) 
he  had  also  seen  and  therefrom  sucked  vastly  more 
juice  than  the  younger  man.  How  and  in  what 
company  he  had  visited  the  various  monuments  he  did 
not  say.  It  amused  him  to  maintain  his  mysterious 
independence.  Very  rarely,  and  only  when  compelled 
by  the  imperious  ruthlessness  of  Lucilla,  did  he  other- 
wise emerge  from  his  obscurity  than  on  these  daily 
visits  to  the  famous  terrace.  There,  surrounded  by 
chatter  in  all  tongues  and  by  representatives  of  all 
cities  from  Seattle  round  the  earth's  girth  to  Tokio, 
he  loved  to  sit  and  watch  the  ever-shifting  scene — the 
trafhc  of  all  the  centuries  in  the  narrow  street,  from 
the  laden  ass  driven  by  a  replica  of  one  of  Joseph's 
brethren  to  the  modern  Rolls-Royce  sweeping  along 
with  a  fat  and  tarbushed  dignitary  of  the  court ;  the 
ox-cart  omnibus  carrying  its  dingy  load  of  veiled 
women  ;  the  poor  funeral  procession,  the  cofftn  borne 
on  shoulders  amid  the  perfunctory  ululations  of  hired 
mourners  ;  on  the  footpaths  the  contrast  of  slave- 
attended,  black-robed,  trim-shod  Egyptian  ladies  in 
yashmaks  and  the  frank  summer-clad  Western  women  ; 
Soudanese  and  Turks  and  Greeks  and  Jews  and 
straight,  clear-eyed  English  oiftcers,  and  German 
tourists  attired  for  the  wilds  of  the  Zambesi ;  and  here 
and   there   a   Gordon   Highlander   swinging   along   in 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  271 

kilts  and  white  tunic ;  and  lounging  against  the 
terrace  balustrade  the  dragomans,  flaunting  villains 
gay  in  rainbow  robes,  and  the  vendors  of  beads  and 
fly-whisks  and  post  cards  holding  up  their  wares  at 
arm's  height  and  regarding  prospective  purchasers 
with  the  eyes  of  a  crumb-expectant  though  self- 
respecting  dog,  who  sits  on  his  tail  by  his  master's 
side  ;  and,  across  the  way,  the  curio  shops  rich  with 
the  spoils  of  Samarcand.  From  all  this  when  alone  he 
garnered  the  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye.  When  Martin  was 
with  him  he^  shared  with  his  pupil  the  golden  grain  of 
the  panorama. 

"  How,"  said  he,  "  is  my  speculator  in  happiness 
getting  on  ?" 

"  The  stock  is  booming,"  rephed  Martin  with  a  laugh. 

"  What  an  education,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  is  the 
society  of  American  men  of  substance  !  " 

"  It  pleases  you  to  be  ironical,"  said  Martin,  "  but 
you  speak  literal  truth.  An  American  doesn't  set  a 
man  down  as  a  damned  fool  because  he  is  ignorant  of 
his  own  particular  line  of  business.  Dangerfield,  for 
instance,  who  keeps  a  working  balance  of  his  soul 
locked  up  in  a  safe  in  Wall  Street,  has  explained  to 
me  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange  with  the  most 
courteous  simplicity." 

"  And  in  return,"  said  Fortinbras,  waving  away  a 
seller  of  rhinoceros-horn  amber  with  the  gesture  of  a 
monarch  dismissing  his  chamberlain,  "  you  have  given 
him  an  exhaustive  criticism,  not  untempered  with 
jaundice,  of  lower  middle-class  education  in  England." 

"  Now,  how  the  deuce,"  said  Martin,  recklessly 
throwing  his  half-finished  cigarette  over  the  balustrade 
— "  how  the  deuce  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

"It  is  my  secret,"  rephed  Fortinbras.  "It  is  also 
the  secret  of  a  dry  and  successful  man  like  Mr.  Danger- 
field,  with  whom  I  am  sorry  to  have  had  no  more 
than  ten  minutes'  conversation.  In  those  ten  minutes 
I   discovered  in  him   a  lamentable  ignorance   of  the 


272  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

works  of  Chaucer,  Cervantes,  and  Turguenieff,  but  for 
my  benefit  he  sized  up  in  a  few  clattering  epigrams 
the  essence  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  Spanish,  and  Slavonic 
races,  and,  for  his  own,  was  extracting  from  me  all  I 
know  about  Tolstoi,  when  Lucilla  called  me  away  to 
expound  to  his  wife  the  French  family  system.  From 
which  you  will  observe  that  the  American  believes  in  a 
free  exchange  of  knowledge  as  a  system  of  education. 
To  revert  to  my  original  question,  however,  you 
im.agine  that  vour  present  path  is  strewn  with  roses  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Martin. 

"  That's  all  I  desire  to  know,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
Fortinbras  benevolently. 

"  And  what  about  yourself  ?  "  asked  Martin.  "  What 
about  your  pursuit  of  happiness  ?  " 

"  I  am  studying  Arabic,"  replied  Fortinbras,  "  and 
discussing  philosophy  with  one  Abu  Mohammed,  a 
very  learned  Doctor  of  Theology,  with  a  very  long 
white  beard,  from  whose  sedative  companionship  I 
derive  much  spiritual  anodyne." 

Soon  after  this  the  whole  Semiramis  party  packed 
up  their  traps  and  went  by  night  train  to  Luxor. 
There  they  settled  down  for  a  while  and  did  the  things 
that  the  floating  population  of  Luxor  do.  They  rode 
on  donkeys  and  on  camels,  and  they  drove  in  carriages 
and  sand-carts.  They  visited  the  Tombs  of  the  Kings 
and  the  Tombs  of  the  Queens,  and  the  Tombs  of  the 
Ministers  and  Karnak,  and  their  own  private  and 
particular  Temple  of  Luxor.  And  Martin  amassed  a 
vast  amount  of  erudition  and  learned  to  know  gods 
and  goddesses  by  their  attributes,  and  talked  about 
them  with  casual  intimacy.  His  nature  drank  in  all 
that  there  was  of  wonder  and  charm  in  these  relics  of 
a  colossal  past  like  an  insatiable  sponge ;  and  in 
Upper  Eg3^pt  the  humble  present  is  but  a  relic  of  the 
past.  The  twentieth-century  fellaheen  guiding  the  ox- 
drawn  wooden  plough  might  have  served  for  models  of 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  273 

any  bas-relief  or  painting  in  any  tomb  of  thousands  of 
years  ago.  So  too  might  the  half-naked  men  in  the 
series  of  terraced  trenches  draining  water  from  the 
Nile  by  means  of  rude  wooden  lever  and  bucket  to 
irrigate  the  land.  The  low  mud  houses  of  the  villages 
were  the  same  as  those  which,  covering  vast  expanses 
on  either  side  of  the  river,  made  up  the  mighty  and 
populous  city  of  Thebes.  And  the  peasantry,  purer  in 
type  than  the  population  of  Cairo,  which  till  then  was 
all  the  Egypt  that  Martin  knew,  were  of  the  same  race 
as  those  warriors  who  gained  vain  victories  for 
unsympathetic  Kings. 

The  ridgy,  rocky,  sandy  desert,  startlingly  yellow 
against  the  near  blue  dome  of  sky.  A  group  of  donkeys, 
donkey-boys,  violently  clad  dragomans,  one  or  two 
black-robed,  white-turbaned  official  guides.  Euro- 
peans as  exotic  to  the  scene  as  Esquimaux  in  Hyde 
Park.  An  excavated  descent  to  a  hole  surmounted  by 
a  sign-board  as  though  it  were  the  entrance  to  some 
underground  boozing-ken,  an  Egyptian  soldier  in 
khaki  and  red  tarbush.  An  inclined  plane,  then  flight 
after  flight  of  wooden  steps,  through  painted  chamber 
after  painted  chamber,  and  at  last,  deep  down  in  the 
earth,  lit  by  electric  light,  the  heart  of  the  tomb's 
poor  mystery :  the  mummified  body  of  a  great 
King,  Amen-Hetep  II,  in  an  uncovered  sandstone 
sarcophagus.  It  is  the  world's  greatest  monument 
to  the  awful  and  futile  vanity  of  man. 

"  Thank  God,"  said  Martin,  as  he  came  out  with 
Lucilla  into  the  open  air — "  thank  God  for  the  great 
world  and  sunshine  and  life.  The  whole  thing  is 
fascinating,  is  soul-racking,  but  I  hate  these  people 
who  lived  for  nothing  but  death.  I  wanted  to  bash 
that  King's  face  in.  There  was  that  poor  devil  of  an 
artist  who  spent  his  soul  over  those  sculptures,  going 
at  them  hammer  and  chisel  in  the  black  bowels  of  the 
earth,  with  nothing  but  an  oil-lamp  on  the  scaffold 


274  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

beside  him,  for  years  and  years — and  when  he  had 
finished,  cahnly  put  to  death  by  that  brute  l3^ing  there, 
so  that  he  should  not  glorify  any  other  swollen-headed 
w^orm  of  a  tyrant." 

They  sat  down  on  the  sand  in  a  triangular  patch  of 
shade.     Lucilla  regarded  him  with  approbation. 

"  I  love  to  hear  you  talk  vehemently,"  she  remarked. 

"  It's  because  I  have  learned  to  feel  vehemently," 
said  Martin. 
■     "  Since  when." 

"  vSince  I  first  met  you,"  said  Martin,  with  sudden 
daring. 

"  It's  not  my  example  you've  been  profiting  by," 
she  laughed.  "  You've  never  heard  me  raving  at  a 
poor  old  mummy." 

Cool  and  casual,  she  warded  off  the  shaft  of  his 
implied  declaration.  He  had  not  another  M'eapon  to 
hand.     He  said  : 

"  You've  said  things  equally  violent  when  you  have 
felt  deeply.  That  is  your  great  power.  You  live 
intensely.  Everything  you  do  you  put  your  whole  self 
into.  You  have  the  faculty  of  making  everybody 
around  you  do  the  same." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Watney-Holcombe  appeared  at 
the  mouth  of  the  tomb,  mopping  his  rubicund  face. 
At  Lucilla  he  shook  a  playful  fist. 

"  Not  another  darned  monument  for  me  this  day." 

"  I  don't  seem  to  have  succeeded  with  him,  anyway," 
she  said  in  a  low  and  ironical  voice. 

Martin,  gentlest  of  creatures,  felt  towards  Mr, 
Watney-Holcombe  for  the  moment  as  he  had  felt 
towards  Amen-Hetep.  The  rosy-faced  gentleman  sat 
beside  them  and  talked  flippantly  of  gods  and  god- 
desses ;  and  soon  the  rest  of  the  party  joined  them. 
The  opportunity  for  which  Martin  had  waited  so  long, 
of  which  he  had  dreamed  the  extravagant  dreams  of 
an  imaginative  child,  was  gone.  He  would  have  to 
wait  yet  further.     But  he  had  spoken  as  he  had  never 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  275 

before  dared  to  speak.  He  had  told  her  unmistakably 
that  she  had  taught  him  to  feel  and  to  live.  As  the 
other  ladies  approached  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  held 
out  a  hand  to  aid  the  divinity  to  rise.  She  accepted 
it  frankly,  nodded  him  pleasant  thanks.  The  pressure 
of  her  little  moist  palm  kept  him  a-tingle  for  long 
afterwards. 

They  had  a  gay  and  intimate  ride  home.  The 
donkey-boys  thwacked  the  donkeys  so  that  they 
galloped,  to  the  shattering  of  sustained  conversation 
between  the  riders.  But  in  one  breathing-space,  while 
they  jogged  along  side  by  side,  she  said  : 

"  If  I  have  done  anything  to  help  you  on  your  way, 
I  regard  it  as  a  privilege." 

"  You've  done  everything  for  me,"  said  Martin. 
"  To  whom  else  but  you  do  I  owe  all  this  ?  "  His 
gesture  embraced  earth  and  sky. 

"  I  only  made  a  suggestion,"  said  Lucilla. 

"  You've  done  infinitely  more.  Anybody  giving 
advice  could  say  :  '  Go  to  Egypt.'  You  said,  '  Come 
to  Egypt,'  and  therein  lies  all  the  difference.  You 
have  given  me  of  yourself,  so  bountifully,  so  gene- 
rously  "     He  paused. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said.     "  I  love  to  hear  you  talk." 

But  the  donkey-boys,  perceiving  Mr.  Dangerfield 
mounted  on  a  fleet  quadruped  about  to  break  through 
the  advance  guard,  thwacked  the  donkeys  again,  and 
Martin,  unless  he  shouted  breathlessly,  could  not  go 
on  talking. 

That  evening  there  was  a  dance  at  the  Winter 
Palace  Hotel,  where  they  were  staying.  Martin,  on  his 
arrival  at  Cairo,  had  been  as  ignorant  of  dancing  as  a 
giraffe ;  but  Lucilla,  Mrs.  Dangerfield,  and  Maisie, 
having  commandeered  the  Watncy-Holcombe's  private 
sitting-room  at  the  Semiramis  whenever  it  suited 
them,  had  put  him  through  a  severe  and  summarj^ 
course.  He  threw  himiself  devotedly  into  the  new 
delight.     A  lithe  figure  and  a  quick  ear  aided  him. 


276  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Before  he  left  Cairo  he  could  dance  one-steps  and  two- 
steps  with  the  best ;  and  so  a  new  joy  was  added  to 
his  existence.  And  to  him  it  was  a  joy  infinitely  more 
sensuous  and  magnetic  than  to  those  who  from  child- 
hood have  regarded  dancing  as  a  commonplace  social 
pleasure.  To  understand,  you  must  put  yourself  in 
the  place  of  tliis  undeveloped,  finely  tempered  man  of 
thirty. 

His  arm  was  around  the  beloved  body,  his  hand 
clasped  hers,  the  fragrance  of  her  hair  was  in  his 
nostrils,  their  limbs  moved  in  perfect  unison  with  the 
gay  tune.  His  heart  sang  to  the  music,  his  feet  were 
winged  with  laughter.  In  young  enjoyment,  she  said 
with  literal  truthfulness  : 
"  You  are  a  born  dancer." 

He  glowed  and  murmured  glad  incoherences  of 
acknowledgment. 

"  You're  a  born  all  sorts  of  other  things,  I  believe," 
she  said,  "  that  only  need  bringing  out.  You  have  a 
rhythmical  soul." 

What  she  meant  precisely  she  did  not  know,  but  it 
sounded  mighty  fine  in  Martin's  ears.  Ever  since  his 
first  interview  with  Fortinbras  he  had  been  curiously 
interested  in  that  vague  organ  and  its  evolution.  Now. 
it  was  rhythmical.  To  explain  herself  she  added : 
"  It  is  in  harmony  with  the  great  laws  of  existence." 

A  new  light  shone  in  his  eyes  and  he  held  himself 
proudly.  He  looked  quite  a  gaUant  fellow,  straight, 
EngHsh,  masterful.  Her  skirts  swished  the  feet  of  a 
couple  of  elderly  English  ladies  sitting  by  the  waU. 
Her  quick  woman's  ears  caught  the  remark  :  "  What 
a  handsome  couple."  She  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
sparlded  into  his.  He  replied  to  her  psychological 
dictum  : 

"  At  any  rate  it's  in  harmony  with  the  deepest  of 
them  all." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  The  fundamental  law,"  said  he. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  277 

They  danced  the  gay  dance  to  the  end.  They 
stopped  breathless,  and  laughed  into  each  other's  eyes. 
She  took  his  arm  and  they  left  the  ballroom. 

"  Unless  you  will  dance  with  me  again,"  he  said, 
"  this  is  my  last  dance  to-night." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  leave  you  to  guess,"  said  he. 

"  It  was  as  near  perfection  as  could  be,"  she  admitted. 
"  I  feel  rather  like  that  myself.  Perhaps  more  so  ; 
for  I  don't  want  to  spoil  things  even  by  dancing  with 
you  again." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  " 

She  nodded  frankly,  intimately,  deliciously. 

"  Let  us  go  outside,  away  from  everybody,"  he 
suggested. 

They  crossed  the  lounge  and  reached  the  western 
door.     Both  were  living  a  little  above  themselves. 

"  When  last  we  talked  sense,"  she  said,  "  you  spoke 
abcvt  a  fundamental  law.  Come  and  expound  it  to 
me." 

They  stood  on  the  terrace  amid  other  flushed  and 
happy  dancers. 

"  Let  us  get  away  from  these  people." 

"  Who  know  nothing  of  the  fundamental  law,"  said 
Lucilla. 

So  they  went  along  a  spur  of  the  terrace,  a  sort  of 
rococo  bastion  guarding  the  entrance  to  the  hotel,  and 
there  they  found  solitude.  They  sat  beneath  the 
velvet  star-hung  sky.  Fifty  yards  away  flowed  the 
Nile,  with  now  and  then  a  flashing  ripple.  From  a 
ghyassa  with  ghostly  white  sail  creeping  down  the  river 
came  an  Arab  chant.  The  flowers  of  the  bougainvillea 
on  the  hotel  porch  gleamed  dim  and  pale.  A  touch  of 
khamsin  gave  languor  to  the  air.  Lucilla  drew  off  her 
gloves,  bade  him  put  them  down  for  her.  He  preferred 
to  keep  them  warm  and  fragrant,  a  part  of  herself. 

"  Now  about  this  fundamental  law,"  she  said  in  her 
lazy  contralto. 


278  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Her  hand  hung  carelessly,  temptingly  over  the  arm 
of  her  chair.  Graciously  she  allowed  him  to  take  and 
hold  it. 

"  Surely  you  know." 

"  1  want  you  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Philosopher." 

He  dallied  with  the  adorable  situation. 

"  Since  when  have  I  become  Master  and  you  Pupil, 
Lucilla  ?  " 

"  Since  you  began,  presumably,  to  plunge  into 
profundities  of  wisdom  where  I  can't  follow  you. 
Behold  me  at  your  feet." 

He  moved  his  chair  close  to  hers,  and  she  allowed 
him  to  pla}^  with  her  slender  fingers. 

"  The  fundamental  law  of  life,"  said  he,  bending 
towards  her,  "  is  love." 

"  I  wonder  !  "  said  Lucilla. 

She  lay  in  the  long  chair,  her  head  against  the  back. 
He  drew  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 

"  I'm  sure  of  it.  Lm  sure  of  it  as  I'm  sure  that 
there's  a  God  in  Heaven,  as  that,"  he  whispered,  in 
what  the  sophisticated  may  term  an  anti-climax, 
"  there's  a  goddess  on  earth." 

"  Who  is  the  goddess  ?  "  she  murmured. 

"  You,"  said  he. 

"  I  like  being  called  a  goddess,"  she  said,  "  especially 
after  dancing  the  two-step.  Hymns  Ancient  and 
Modern." 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  the  most  ancient  h\Tiin  in 
the  world  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  ShaU  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Am  I  not  here  to  be  instructed  ?  " 

"  You  are  beautiful  and  I  love  you.  You  are 
wonderful  and  I  love  you  You  are  adorable  and  I 
love  you." 

"  How  did  you  learn  to  become  so  l5n-ical  ?  " 

Martin  knew  not.  He  was  embarked  on  the  highest 
adventure  of  his  life.     A  super-Martin  seemed  to  speak. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  279 

Her  tone  was  playful,  not  ironical.  It  encouraged 
him  to  flights  more  lyrical  still.  In  the  dayhght  of 
reason  what  he  said  was  amazing  nonsense.  Beneath 
the  Egyptian  stars,  in  the  atmosphere  drowsy  with  the 
scents  of  the  East  and  the  touch  of  khamsin,  it  sounded 
to  receptive  ears  beautifully  romantic.  Through  the 
open  door  came  the  strains  of  an  old-fashioned  waltz, 
perhaps  meretricious,  but  in  the  exotic  surroundings 
sensuous  and  throbbing  with  passion.  He  bent  over 
her,  and  now  possessed  both  hands. 

"  All  that  I  feel  for  you,  all  that  you  are  to  me,"  he 
said,  concluding  his  rhapsody.  Then,  as  she  made  no 
reply,  he  asked :  "  You  aren't  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"I'm  not  a  granite  sphinx,"  she  said  in  her  low 
voice.  "  No  one  has  ever  said  things  like  that  to  me 
before.  I  don't  say  men  haven't  tried.  They  have  ; 
but  they've  always  made  themselves  ridiculous.  I've 
always  wanted  to  laugh  at  them." 

Said  Martin  :    "  You  are  not  laughing  at  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  whispered.  And  after  a  long  pause : 
"  No,  I  am  not  laughing  at  you." 

She  turned  her  face  to  him.  Her  Hps  were  very 
near.  Mortal  man  could  have  done  neither  more  nor 
less  than  that  which  Martin  did.  He  kissed  her. 
Then  he  drew  back  shaken  to  the  roots  of  his  being. 
She  lay  with  closed  eyes  ;  he  saw  the  rise  and  faU  of 
her  bosom.  The  universe,  earth  and  stars  and  the 
living  bit  of  the  cosmos  that  was  he,  hung  in  breathless 
suspense.     Time  stopped.     There  was  no  space. 

He  was  holding  her  beloved  hands  so  delicately  and 
adorably  veined  :  before  his  eyes,  in  the  dim  light, 
were  her  Hps,  slightly  parted,  which  he  had  just 
kissed. 

Presently  she  stirred,  withdrew  her  hands,  passed 
them  across  her  eyes  and  with  dainty  touches  about 
her  hair  as  she  sat  up.  Time  went  on  and  there  was 
space  again  and  the  stars  followed  their  courses. 
Martin  threw  an  arm  round  her. 


28o  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Lucilla,"  he  cried  quiveringly. 

But  with  a  quick  movement  she  eluded  his  embrace 
and  rose  to  her  feet.  She  kept  him  off  with  a  httle 
gesture. 

"  No,  no,  Martin.  There  has  been  enough  foohsh- 
ness  for  one  night." 

But  Martin,  man  at  last,  caught  her  and  crushed 
her  to  him  with  aU  his  young  strength  and  kissed  her, 
not  as  worshipper  kisses  goddess,  but  as  a  man  kisses  a 
woman. 

At  last  she  said,  like  millions  of  her  sisters  in  similar 
circumstances  :    "  You're  hurting  me." 

Like  millions  of  his  brethren,  he  released  her.  She 
panted  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said  :  "  We  must  go 
in.  Let  me  go  first.  Give  me  a  few  minutes'  grace. 
Good  night." 

Mortal  gentleman  and  triumphant  lover  could  do  no 
more  or  no  less.  She  sped  down  the  terrace  and 
disappeared.  He  waited,  his  soul  aiiame.  Wlien  he 
entered  the  lounge  she  was  not  there.  He  saw  the 
Dangerfields  and  the  Watney-Holcombes  and  one  or 
two  others  sitting  in  a  group  over  straw-equipped 
glasses.  He  knew  that  Lucilla  was  not  in  the  dancing- 
room.  He  knew  that  she  had  fled  to  solitude.  Cheery 
Watney-Holcombe,  catching  sight  of  him,  waved  an 
inviting  hand.  Martin,  longing  for  the  sweet  loneliness 
of  the  velvet  night,  did  not  dare  refuse.  His  wits  were 
sharpened.  Refusal  would  give  cause  for  intolerable 
gossip.     He  came  forward. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  Lucilla  ?  "  cried  Mrs. 
Dangerfield. 

"  She  has  gone  to  bed.     We've  had  a  heavy  day. 
She's  dead-beat,"  said  Martin. 

And  thus  he  entered  into  the  Kingdom  of  the  Men 
of  the  World. 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  next  morning,  Martin  inquiring  for  Miss  Merriton 
learned  that  she  had  already  started  on  a  sketching 
excursion  with  Hassan,  the  old,  one-eyed  dragoman. 
Her  destination  was  unknown ;  but  the  fact  that 
Hassan  had  taken  charge  of  a  basket  containing 
luncheon  argued  a  late  return.  Martin  spent  a  sorry 
forenoon  at  Karnak,  which,  deprived  of  the  vivifying 
influence  of  the  only  goddess  that  had  ever  graced  its 
precincts,  seemed  dead,  forlorn  and  vain.  It  was  a 
day,  too,  of  khamsin,  when  hot  stones  and  sand  are 
an  abomination  to  the  gasping  and  perspiring  sense. 
And  yet  Lucilla  had  gone  off  into  the  desert.  She 
would  faint  at  her  easel.  She  would  get  sunstroke.  She 
would  be  brought  back  dead.  An  anxious  Martin 
joined  a  languid  luncheon  table.  There  was  talk  of 
the  absent  one.  If  she  had  not  been  Lucilla  they 
would  have  accounted  her  mad. 

He  sat  through  the  sweltering  afternoon  on  the 
eastern  terrace  over  a  novel  which  he  could  not  read. 
Last  night  he  had  held  her  passionately  in  his  arms. 
Her  surrender  had  been  absolute  and  eloquent 
avowal.  Already  the  masculine  instinct  of  possession 
spoke.  Why  did  she  now  elude  him  ?  He  had 
counted  on  a  morning  of  joy  that  would  have  eclipsed 
the  night.  Why  had  she  gone  ?  Deep  thought 
brought  comforting  solution.  To-morrow  they  were 
to  migrate  to  Assouan.  This  was  their  last  day  in 
Luxor,  where,  up  to  now,  Lucilla  had  not  made /one 
single  sketch.     Now  had  she  not  told  him  in  Brantome 

that  her  object  in  going  to  Egypt  was   to  paint   it. 

281 


282  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Generously  she  had  put  aside  her  art  for  his  sake — 
until  the  last  moment.  Of  this  last  moment  she  was 
taking  advantage.  Still— why  not  a  little  word  to 
him  ?  He  turned  to  his  book.  But  the  thrill  of  the 
great  kiss  pulsated  through  his  veins.  He  gave  him- 
self up  to  dreams. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  Watney-Holcombe,  fly-whisk 
in  one  hand  and  handkerchief  in  the  other,  took  him 
into  the  cool,  darkened  bar,  and  supplied  him  with  icy 
drink  and  told  him  tales  of  his  early  days  in  San 
Francisco.  A  few  other  men  lounged  in  and  joined 
them.  Desultory  talk  furnished  an  excuse  for  syste- 
matic imbibing  of  cold  liquid.  When  Martin  reached 
the  upper  air  he  found  that  Lucilla  had  already  arrived 
and  had  gone  to  her  room  for  rest.  He  only  saw  her 
when  shecame  down  late  for  dinner.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  close-fitting  charmeuse  gown  of  a  strange  blue 
shade  like  an  Egyptian  evening.  Her  pleasant  greeting 
differed  no  whit  from  that  of  twenty-four  hours  ago. 
Not  by  the  flicker  of  a  brown  eyelash  did  she  betray 
recollection  of  last  night's  impassioned  happenings. 

She  talked  of  her  excursion  to  the  eager  and  reproach- 
ful group.  A  sandstorm  had  ruined  a  masterpiece, 
her  best  brushes,  her  hair,  and  old  Hassan's  temper. 
She  had  swallowed  half  Sahara  with  her  food.  Her 
very  donkey,  cocking  round  an  angry  eye,  had  called 
her  the  most  opprobrious  term  in  his  vocabulary — an 
ass.     Altogether  she  had  enjoyed  herself  immensely. 

"  You  ought  to  have  come,  Martin,"  she  said  coolly. 

He  made  the  obvious  retort.  "  You  did  not  give 
me  the  chance." 

"If  only  you  had  been  up  at  dawn,"  she  laughed. 

"  I  was,"  he  rephed.  "  I  lay  awake  most  of  the 
night  and  I  saw  the  sun  rise  from  my  bedroom  window." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  she  sighed.  "  You  were  looking  the 
wrong  way.  You  were  adoring  the  East  while  I  was 
going  out  to  the  West." 

"  All  that  is  very  pretty,  but  I'm  dying  of  hunger," 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  283 

said  Watney-Holcombe,  carrying  her  off  to  the  dining- 
room. 

The  rest  followed.  At  table  she  sat  between  her 
captor  and  Dangerfield,  so  that  Martin  had  no  private 
speech  with  her.  After  dinner  Watney-Holcombe  and 
Dangerfield  wandered  off  to  the  bar  to  play  billiards. 
Martin,  dechning  an  invitation  to  join  them,  remained 
with  the  four  ladies  in  the  lounge.  Lucilla  had 
manoeuvred  herself  into  an  unassailable  position 
between  the  two  married  women.  Martin  and  Maisie 
sat  sketchily  on  the  outskirts  behind  the  coffee  table. 
The  band  discoursed  unexhilarating  music.  Talk 
languished.  At  last  Maisie  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
took  Martin  unceremoniously  by  the  arm. 

"  If  I  sit  here  much  longer  I  shall  sob.  Come  on 
out  and  do  something." 

Martin  rose.     "  What  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  Anything.  We  can  gaze  at  the  stars  and  you  can 
swear  that  you  love  me.  Or  we  can  go  and  look  at 
Cook's  steamboat." 

"  Will  you  come  with  us,  Lucilla  ?  "  asked  Martin. 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  "  Lm  far  too  tired 
and  lazy." 

The  girl,  still  holding  his  arm,  swung  him  round. 
He  had  no  choice  but  to  obey.  They  walked  along 
the  quay  as  far  as  the  northern  end  of  the  temple.  By 
the  time  of  their  return  Lucilla  had  gone  to  bed.  She 
had  become  as  elusive  as  a  dream. 

He  did  not  capture  her  till  the  next  morning  on  the 
railway  station  platform,  before  their  train  started. 
By  a  chance,  of  which  he  took  swift  advantage,  she 
stood  some  paces  apart  from  the  little  group  of  friends. 
He  carried  her  farther  away.  Moments  were  precious  ; 
he  went  at  once  to  the  root  of  the  matter. 

"  Lucilla,  why  are  you  avoiding  me  ?  " 

She  opened  wide  eyes.  "  Avoiding  you,  my  dear 
Martin  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  you  gave  me  no  opportunity  of  speaking 


284  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

to  you,  and  this  morning  it  has  been  the  same.  And 
I've  been  in  a  fever  of  longing  for  a  word  with  you," 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "  And  now  you  have  me, 
what  is  the  word  ?  " 

"  I  love  you,"  said  Martin. 

"  Hush,"  she  whispered,  with  an  involuntary  glance 
round  at  the  red-jerseyed  porters  and  the  stray 
passengers.  "  This  is  scarcely  the  place  for  a  declara- 
tion." 

"  The  declaration  was  the  night  before  last." 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said  again,  and  laid  her  gloved  hand 
on  his  arm.     But  he  insisted. 

"  You  haven't  forgotten  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  How  could  I  ?  You  must  give  me 
time." 

"  For  what  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  forget." 

A  horrible  pain  shot  through  him.  "Do  you  want 
to  forget  all  that  has  passed  between  us  ?  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  frankly,  and  laughed.  "  My 
dear  boy,  how  can  we  go  into  such  intimate  matters 
among  this  rabble  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Martin,  "  I  am  only  asking  a 
very  simple  question.     Do  you  want  to  forget  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not  quite,"  she  replied  softly,  and  the  pain 
through  his  heart  ceased  and  he  held  up  his  head  and 
laughed,  and  then  bent  it  towards  her  and  asked 
forgiveness. 

"  If  I  didn't  forgive  you,  I  suppose  you'd  be  miser- 
able ?  " 

"  Abjectly  wretched,"  he  declared. 

"  That  wouldn't  be  a  fit  frame  of  mind  for  a  six-hour 
stifling  and  dusty  railway  journey.  So  let  us  be 
happy  while  we  can." 

At  Assouan  they  went  to  the  hotel  on  the  little 
green  island  in  the  middle  of  the  Nile.  In  the  hope  of 
her  redeeming  a  half-promise  of   early  descent  before 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  285 

dinner,  he  dressed  betimes  and  waited  in  the  long 
lounge,  his  eyes  on  the  lift.  She  appeared  at  last, 
fresh,  radiant,  as  though  she  had  stepped  out  of  the 
dawn.  She  sat  beside  him  with  an  adorable  suggestion 
of  intimacy. 

"  Martin,"  she  said,  "  I  want  you  to  make  me  a 
promise,  will  you  ?  " 

His  eyes  on  hers,  he  promised  blindly. 

"  Promise  me  to  be  good  while  we're  here." 

"  Good  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Yes,  Don't  you  know  what  '  good  '  means  ?  It 
means  not  to  be  tempestuous  or  foolish  or  inquisitive." 

"  I  see,"  said  Martin,  with  a  frown  between  his 
brows.  "  I  mustn't  " — he  hesitated — "  I  mustn't  do 
what  I  did  the  other  night,  and  I  mustn't  say  that  all 
my  universe,  earth  and  sun  and  moon  and  stars  are 
packed  in  this  " — his  fingers  met  the  drapery  of  her 
bodice  in  a  fugitive,  delicate  touch — "  and  I  mustn't 
ask  you  any  questions  about  what  you  may  be 
thinking." 

There  was  a  new  tone  in  his  voice,  a  new  expression 
in  his  eyes  and  about  the  corners  of  his  lips,  all  of 
which  she  was  quick  to  note.  She  cast  him  a  swift 
glance  of  apprehension,  and  her  smile  faded. 

"  You  set  out  the  position  with  starthng  concrete- 
ness." 

"I  do,"  said  he.  "Up  to  a  couple  of  days  ago  I 
worshipped  you  as  a  divine  abstraction.  The  night 
before  last,  things,  to  use  your  words,  became  startlingly 
concrete.  You  are  none  the  less  wonderful  and 
adorable,  but  you  have  become  the  concrete  woman  of 
flesh  and  blood  I  want  and  would  sell  my  soul  for." 

She  glanced  at  him  again,  anxiously,  furtively,  half 
afraid.  In  such  terms  do  none  but  masterful  men 
speak  to  women ;  men  who  from  experience  of  a 
deceitful  sex  know  how  to  tear  away  ridiculous  veils  ; 
or  else  men  who,  having  no  knowledge  of  woman 
whatever,   suddenly  awaken  with  primitive  brutality 


286  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

to  the  sex  instinct.  Her  subtle  brain  worked  out  the 
rapid  solution.  Her  charming  idea  of  making  a  man 
of  Martin  had  succeeded  beyond  her  most  romantic 
expectations.  She  realized  that  facing  him  dry  and 
cold,  as  she  was  doing  now,  v/ould  only  develop  a 
dramatic  situation  which  would  be  cut  uncomfortably 
short  by  the  first  careless  friend  who  stepped  out  of 
the  lift.  She  temporized,  summoning  the  smile  to  her 
eyes. 

"  Anyway  you've  promised." 

"  I  have,"  said  Martin. 

"  You  see,  you  can't  stand  with  a  pistol  at  my  head 
whenever  we  meet  alone.     You  must  give  me  time." 

"  To  forget  ?  " 

"  To  make  up  my  mind  whether  to  forget  or  remem- 
ber," she  declared  radiantly.  "  Now  what  more  do 
you  want  an  embarrassed  woman  to  say  ?  " 

Swiftly  she  had  reassumed  command.  Martin  yielded 
happily.  "  H  it  isn't  all  I  want,"  said  he,  "  it's  much 
more  than  I  dared  claim." 

She  rose  and  he  rose  too.  She  passed  her  hand 
through  his  arm.  "  Come  and  see  whether  anybody 
has  had  the  common  sense  to  reserve  a  table  for 
dinner." 

Thus  during  her  royal  pleasure  their  semi-loverlike 
relations  were  established  ;  rather  perhaps  were  they 
nicely  balanced  on  a  knife-edge,  the  equDibrium 
dependent  on  her  skill.  As  at  Luxor,  so  at  Assouan 
did  thej^  the  things  that  those  who  go  to  Assouan  do. 
They  lounged  about  the  hotel  garden.  They  took  the 
m-otor-ferry  to  the  little  town  on  the  mainland  and 
v/andered  about  the  tiny  bazaar.  They  sailed  on  the 
Nile.  They  went  to  the  merriest  race  meetings  in 
heathendom,  where  you  can  back  your  fancy  in  camel, 
donkey,  or  buffalo  for  a  shilling  upwards  at  the  State 
pari  muhcel.  They  made  an  expedition  to  the  Dam. 
The  main  occupation,  as  it  is  that  of  most  who  go  to 
x\ssouan,  was  not  to  pass  the  time,  but  to  sit  in  the 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  287 

sun  and  let  the  time  pass  them.  A  golden  fortnight 
or  so  shpped  by.  Martin  Hved  as  freely  in  his  goddess's 
company  as  he  had  done  at  Cairo  or  Luxor.  She  had 
ordained  a  period  of  probation.  All  his  dehcacy  of 
sentiment  proclaimed  her  justified.  She  comported 
herself  as  the  most  gracious  of  divinities  and  the  most 
warmly  sympathetic  of  human  women,  leading  him  by 
all  the  delicate  devices  known  to  Olympus  and  Clapham 
Common  to  lay  bare  to  her  his  inmost  soul.  He  told 
her  all  that  he  had  to  tell :  much  that  he  had  told 
already :  his  childhood  in  S\vitzerland,  his  broken 
Cambridge  career,  his  life  at  Margett's  Universal 
College,  his  adventures  with  Corinna,  his  waiterdom  at 
Brantome,  his  relations  with  Fortinbras,  Bigourdin, 
Felise.  The  only  thing  in  his  simple  past  that  he  hid 
was  his  knowledge  of  the  tragedy  in  the  life  of  For- 
tinbras. "  And  then  you  came,"  said  he,  "  and 
touched  my  dull  earth,  and  turned  it  into  a  New 
JeiTisalem  of  '  pure  gold  like  unto  clear  glass.'  "  And 
he  told  her  of  his  consultation  with  the  Dealer  in 
Happiness,  and  his  journey  to  London  and  his  meeting 
with  Corinna  in  the  flimsy  fiat.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
she  had  the  divine  power  of  taking  his  heart  in  her 
blue-vei-.ed  hands  and  making  it  speak  hke  that  of  a 
child.  For  everything  in  the  world  for  which  that 
heart  had  longed  she  had  the  genius  to  create  expression. 
In  spite  of  all  the  delicious  intimacy  of  such  revela- 
tion he  observed  his  compact  loyally.  For  the  quiver- 
ing moment  it  was  enough  that  she  knew  and  accepted 
his  love  ;  it  was  enough  to  realize  that  when  she 
smiled  on  him  she  must  remember  unresentfully  the 
few  holy  seconds  of  his  embrace.  And  yet,  when 
alone  with  her,  in  the  moonlit  garden,  so  near  that 
accidental  touch  of  arm  or  s\\dnging  touch  of  skirt  or 
other  delicate  physical  sense  of  her  was  an  essential 
part  of  their  intercourse,  he  wondered  whether  she 
had  a  notion  of  the  madness  that  surged  in  his  blood, 
of  the  tensity  of  the  grip  in  which  he  held  himself. 


288  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

And  so,  lotus-eating,  reckless  of  the  future,  happy 
only  in  the  throbbing  present,  he  remained  with 
Lucilla  and  her  friends  at  Assouan  until  the  heat  of 
spring  drove  them  back  to  Cairo. 

There,  on  the  terrace  of  Shepheard's,  on  the  noon 
of  his  arrival,  he  found  Fortinbras.  The  Dealer  in 
Happiness,  economically,  personally,  though  philo- 
sophically conducted,  had  also  visited  Luxor,  and  had 
brought  away  a  rich  harvest  of  observation.  He 
bestowed  it  liberally  on  Martin,  who,  listening  with 
perplexed  brow,  wondered  whether  he  himself  had 
brought  away  but  chaff.  After  a  while  Fortinbras 
inquired  : 

"  And  the  stock  we  wot  of — is  it  still  booming  ?  " 

Martin  said :  "I've  been  inconceivably  happy. 
Don't  let  us  talk  about  it." 

Presently  Lucilla  and  Mrs.  Dangerfield  joined  them, 
and  Fortinbras  was  carried  off  to  the  Semiramis  to 
lunch.  It  was  a  gay  meal.  The  Watney-Holcombes 
had  gathered  in  a  few  young  soldiers,  and  youth 
asserted  itself  joyously.  Fortinbras,  urbane  and  de- 
bonair, laughed  with  the  youngest.  The  subalterns, 
thinking  him  a  personage  of  high  importance  who  was 
unbending  for  their  benefit,  paid  him  touching  defer- 
ence. He  exerted  himself  to  please,  dealing  out 
happiness  lavishly  ;  yet  his  bland  eyes  kept  keen 
watch  on  Martin  and  LuciUa  sitting  together  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  great  round  table.  Once  he 
caught  and  held  her  glance  for  a  few  seconds  ;  then 
she  flushed,  as  it  seemed,  angrily,  and  flung  him  an 
irrelevant  question  about  Felise.  When  the  meal  was 
over  and  he  had  taken  leave  of  his  hosts,  he  said  to 
Martin,  who  accompanied  him  to  the  west  door,  by 
which  he  elected  to  emerge  : 

"  Either  you  wiU  never  want  me  again,  or  you  wiU 
want  a  friendly  hand  more  than  you  have  wanted  a 
friendly  hand  in  your  life  before — and  I  am  leaving 
this  land  of  enchantment  the  day  after  to-morrow. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  289 

Dulce  est  dissipare,  etc.  But  dissipation  is  the  thief  of 
professional  advancement.  If  a  dealer  in  cheaper  and 
shoddier  happiness  arises  in  the  Quartier  I  am  lost. 
There  was  already  before  I  left  a  conscientious  and 
conscienceless  Teuton  who  was  trying  to  steal  my 
thunder  and  retail  it  at  the  ignominious  rate  of  a  franc 
a  reverberation.  I  cannot  afford  to  let  things  drift. 
Neither,  my  son,"  he  tapped  the  young  man  impres- 
sively on  the  shoulder — "  neither  can  you." 

Martin  straightened  himself,  half  resentful,  and 
twirled  his  trim  moustache. 

"  It's  all  very  well,  my  son,"  said  Fortinbras  with 
his  benevolent  smile,  "  but  all  the  let-Hell-come  airs 
in  the  world  can't  do  anything  else  but  intensify  the 
fact  that  you're  a  Soldier  of  Fortune.  Faint  heart — 
you  know  the  jingle — and  faintness  of  heart  is  not  the 
attribute  of  a  soldier.  Good-bye,  my  dear  Martin." 
He  held  out  his  hand.  "  You  will  see  me  to-morrow 
at  our  usual  haunt." 

Fortinbras  waved  adieu.  Martin  lit  a  cigarette  and 
sat  in  a  far  corner  of  the  veranda.  The  westering  sun 
beat  heavily  on  the  striped  awning.  Farther  along, 
by  the  door,  a  small  group  of  visitors  were  gathered 
round  an  Indian  juggler.  For  the  first  time,  almost, 
since  his  landing  in  Egypt,  he  permitted  himself  to 
think.  A  Soldier  of  Fortune.  The  words  conveyed 
sinister  significance :  a  predatory  swashbuclder  in 
search  of  any  fortune  to  his  hand  :  Lucilla's  fortune. 
Hitherto  he  had  bhnded  himself  to  sordid  considera- 
tions. He  had  dived,  figuratively  speaking,  into  his 
bag  of  sovereigns  as  into  a  purse  of  Fortunatus.  The 
magic  of  destiny  would  provide  for  his  material  wants. 
What  to  him,  soul-centred  on  the  ineffable  woman, 
were  such  unimportant  and  mean  preoccupations  ? 
He  had  hved  in  a  dream.  He  had  lived  in  his  intoxica- 
tion. He  had  lived  of  late  in  the  splendour  of  a  seismic 
moment.  And  now,  crash  !  he  came  to  earth.  A 
Soldier    of    Fortune.     An    adventurer.     A    swindler. 


290  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

The  brutal  common-sense  aspect  grinned  in  his  face. 
On  shipboard  Fortinbras  had  warned  him  that  he 
was  an  adventurer.  He  had  not  heeded.  ...  He  was 
a  Soldier  of  Fortune.  He  must  strike  the  iron  while 
it  was  hot.  That  was  what  Fortinbras  meant.  He 
must  secure  the  heiress.  He  hated  Fortinbras.  The 
sudden  realization  of  his  position  devastated  his  soul. 
And  yet  he  loved  her.  He  desired  her  as  he  had  not 
dreamed  it  to  be  in  a  man's  power  to  desire. 

At  last  his  glance  rested  on  the  little  crowd  around 
the  Indian  juggler  ;  and  then  suddenly  he  became 
aware  of  her  flashing  like  a  dove  among  crows.  Her 
lips  and  eyes  were  filled  with  a  child's  laughter  at  the 
foolish  conjuring.  When  the  trick  was  over  she 
turned  and,  seeing  him,  smiled.  He  beckoned.  She 
complied,  with  the  afterglow  of  amusement  on  her 
face  ;  but  when  she  came  near  him  her  expression 
changed. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  pushed  a  chair  for  her.     They  sat. 

"  I  must  speak  to  you,  once  and  for  all,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  rather  public  ?  " 

"  The  Indian  is  going,"  he  repHed,  with  an  indicating 
gesture,  "  and  the  people  too.  It's  too  hot  for  them 
to  sit  out  here." 

"  Then  what  about  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  apology.     She  laughed-. 

"  Never  mind.  We  are  as  well  here  as  anywhere. 
Sit  down.     Now,  why  this  sudden  tragic  resolution  ?  " 

"  An  accidental  word  from  Fortinbras.  He  called 
me  a  Soldier  of  Fortune.  The  term  isn't  pretty.  You 
are  a  woman  of  great  wealth.  I  am  a  man  practically 
penniless.  I  have  no  position,  no  profession.  I  am 
what  the  world  calls  an  adventurer." 

She  protested.  "  That's  nonsense.  You  have  been 
absolutely  honest  with  me  from  first  to  last." 

"  Honest  in  so  far  as  I've  not  concealed  my  material 
situation.     But  honourable  ?  ...  If  you  had  known 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  291 

in  Brantome  that  I  had  already  dared  to  love  you, 
would  you  have  suggested  my  coming  to  Egypt  ?  " 

"  Possibly  not,"  replied  Lucilla,  the  shadow  of  an 
ironical  smile  playing  about  her  Hps,  "  But — we  can 
be  quite  frank — I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  told 
me  so." 

"  Of  course  I  couldn't,"  he  admitted.  "  But  loving 
you  as  I  did,  I  ought  not  to  have  come.  It  was  not 
the  part  of  an  honourable  man," 

His  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  cane  chair  and  his  chin 
on  his  hand,  he  looked  with  haggard  questioning  into 
her  eyes.  She  held  his  glance  for  a  brief  moment, 
then  looked  down  at  her  blue-veined  hands. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  deny  it.  That's 
why  I  call  myself  an  adventurer." 

Her  eyes  still  downcast,  she  said  :  "  You  have  no 
reason  in  the  world  to  reproach  yourself.  As  soon  as 
you  could  with  decency  tell  me  that  you  loved  me,  you 
did.  And  you  made  it  clear  to  me  long  before 
you  told  me.  And  I  don't  think,"  she  added  in  a  low 
voice,  "  that  I  showed  much  indignation." 

"  Why  didn't  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  intertwined  her  fingers  nervously.  "  Sometimes 
a  woman  feels  it  good  to  be  loved.  And  I've  felt  it 
good — and  wonderful — all  the  time.  Once — there  was 
a  man,  years  ago  ;  but  he's  dead.  Since  then  other 
men  have  come  along  and  I've  turned  them  down  as 
gently  as  I  could.  But  no  one  has  done  the  mad 
thing  that  you  have  done  for  my  sake.  And  no  one 
has  been  so  simple  and  loyal — and  strong.  You  are 
different.  I  have  had  the  sense  of  being  loved  by  a 
man  pure  and  unstained.  God  knows  you  are  without 
blame." 

"  Then,  my  dear,"  said  he,  bending  his  head  vainly 
so  as  to  catch  her  face  otherwise  than  in  profile,  and  to 
meet  the  eyes  hidden  beneath  the  adorable  brown 
lashes,  "  what  is  to  happen  between  us  two  ?  " 

For  answer,  she  made  a  little  despairing  gesture. 


292  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  If  I  had  the  right  of  an  honest  man  seeking  a 
woman  in  marriage,"  he  said,  "  I  would  take  matters 
into  my  own  hand.  I  would  follow  you  all  over  the 
world  until  I  won  you  somehow  or  other." 

She  turned  on  him  in  a  flash  of  passion. 

"  If  you  say  such  things,  you  will  make  me  marry 
you  out  of  humiliation  and  remorse." 

"  God  forbid  I  should  do  that,"  said  Martin. 

She  averted  her  head  again.  There  was  a  span  of 
silence.  At  the  extreme  end  of  the  long  deserted 
veranda,  beneath  the  sun-baked  awning,  with  only  the 
occasional  clatter  of  a  carriage  or  the  whirr  of  a  motor 
breaking  the  stillness  of  this  drowsy  embankment  of 
the  Nile — they  might  have  been  miles  away  in  the 
desert  solitude  under  the  palm-tree  of  Fortinbras's 
dream. 

Lucilla  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  It  is  I  who  am  to 
blame  for  everything.  No  ;  let  me  talk.  I've  got  the 
courage  to  talk  straight  and  you've  got  the  courage  to 
listen.  You  interested  me  at  Brantome.  Your  posi- 
tion there  was  so  un-English.  Of  course  I  liked  j^ou. 
I  thought  you  ought  to  be  roused  from  stagnation.  It 
was  just  idle  fancy  that  made  me  talk  about  Egypt. 
I  thought  it  would  do  you  good  to  cut  everything  and 
see  the  world.  When  I  took  Felise  away  with  me  and 
saw  how  she  expanded  and  developed,  I  thougiit  of 
you.  I've  done  the  same  often  before  with  girls,  like 
Felise,  who  have  never  been  given  a  chance,  and  it  has 
been  a  fascinating  amusement.  I  had  never  made  the 
experiment  with  a  man.  I  wanted  to  see  how  you 
would  shape,  what  kind  of  impression  all  the  new  kind 
of  life  would  make  on  you.  I  realize  it  now,  but  till 
now  I  haven't,  that  all  my  so-called  kindnesses  to  girls 
has  been  heartless  experimenting.  I  could  keep  twenty 
girls  in  luxury  for  twenty  years  without  considering 
the  expense.  That's  the  curse  of  unlimited  money  ! 
One  abuses  its  power.  .  .  .  With  you,  of  course,  money 
didn't  come  in.     I  hadn't  the  insanity  to  ask  you  to 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  293 

be  my  guest,  as  I  could  ask  young  women.  But 
money  aside,  I  knew  I  could  give  you  what  I  gave 
them  ;  and  from  what  Felise  let  drop  I  gathered  you 
had  some  little  private  means.  So  I  wrote  to  you — 
on  the  off-chance.  I  thought  you  would  come.  People 
have  a  way  of  doing  what  I  ask  them.  You  were 
going  to  be  the  most  fascinating  amusement  of  all. 
You  see,  that's  how  it  was." 

She  paused.     His  face  hardened.     "  Well,"  said  he, 

go  on. 

"  Can't  you  guess  the  rest  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  I  can't." 

There  was  a  note  in  his  voice  that  seemed  to  tear 
her  heart.     She  pressed  both  hands  to  her  eyes. 

"  If  you  knew  how  I  despise  and  hate  myself  !  " 

"  No,  no,  my  dear,"  said  Martin.  He  touched  her 
shoulder,  warm  and  soft.  Only  the  convention  of  a 
diaphanous  flimsy  sleeve  gave  sanction.  She  let  his 
hand  remain  there  for  a  moment  or  two  ;  then  gripped 
it  and  flung  it  away.  But  the  nervous  clasp  of  her 
fingers  denied  resentment.     She  turned  a  white  face. 

"  I  knew  you  loved  me.  It  was  good,  as  I've  told 
you,  to  feel  it.  I  meant  to  escape  as  I've  escaped 
before.  I  don't  excuse  myself.  Then  came  the  night 
at  Luxor.  I  let  myself  go.  It  was  a  thing  of  the 
senses.  Something  snapped,  as  it  has  done  in  the  case 
of  millions  of  women  under  similar  conditions.  You 
could  have  done  what  you  liked  with  me.  I  shall 
never  forget  if  I  live  to  be  ninety.  Do  you  think  I've 
been  sleeping  peacefully  all  these  nights  ever  since  ? 
I  haven't." 

She  looked  at  him  defiantly.     Said  Martin  : 

"  You  must  care  for  me — a  little.  The  veriest  little 
is  all  I  dare  ask  for." 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  she  answered,  meeting  his  eyes. 
"  Don't  delude  yourself.  You  are  asking  for  every- 
thing. And  if  I  had  everything  to  give  I  would  give 
it  to  you.     You  may  think  I  have  played  with  you 


294  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

heartlessly  for  the  last  three  or  four  weeks.  Any 
outsider  knowing  the  bare  facts  would  accuse  me. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  sent  you  away  ;  but  I  hadn't 
the  strength.  There.  That's  a  confession.  Make  what 
you  will  of  it." 

"  All  I  can  make  of  it,"  said  Martin  tremulously,  "  is 
that  you're  the  woman  for  me,  and  that  you  know  it." 

"  I  do,"  she  said.  "  I'm  up  against  facts  and  I  face 
them  squarely.  On  the  other  hand,  you're  not  the 
man  for  me.  If  ever  a  woman  has  tried  to  love  a 
man,  I've  tried  to  love  you.  That's  why  I've  made 
you  stay.  I've  plucked  my  heart  out — all,  all  but  the 
roots.  There's  a  dead  man  there,  at  the  roots  " — she 
flung  out  both  hands,  and  her  shoulders  heaved — "  and 
he  is  always  up  between  us,  and  I  can't,  I  can't.  It's 
no  use.  I  must  give  myself  altogether  or  not  at  all. 
I'm  not  built  for  the  half  and  half  things." 

He  sat  grim,  feeling  more  a  stone  than  a  man.  She 
clutched  his  arm. 

"  Suppose  I  did  marry  you.  By  all  the  rules  of  the 
game  I  ought  to.  But  it  would  only  be  misery  for 
both  of  us.  There  would  be  twenty  thousand  causes 
for  misery.     Don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  everything,"  said  Martin.  He  rose  and  leaned 
both  elbows  on  the  veranda  and  faced  her  with  bent 
brows.  "  I  see  everything.  You  have  put  your  case 
very  clearly.  But  suppose  I  say  that  you  haven't 
played  the  game.  Suppose  I  say  that  you  should  have 
known  that  no  man  who  wasn't  in  love  with  you — 
except  an  imbecile — would  have  followed  you  to 
Egypt  as  I've  done.  Suppose  I  say  that  you've  played 
havoc  with  my  life.  Suppose  I  instance  everything 
that  has  passed  between  us,  and  I  assert  the  rules  of 
the  game,  and  I  ask  you  as  a  man,  shaken  to  his  centre 
with  love  of  you,  to  marry  me,  what  would  you 
say  ?  " 

She  rose  and  stood  beside  him,  holding  her  head 
very  proudly. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  295 

"  Put  upon  my  honour  like  that,"  she  replied,  "  I 
should  have  to  say  '  Yes.'  " 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his  and  raised  them  to 
his  lips. 

"  That's  all  I  want  to  know.  But  as  I  don't  reproach 
you,  I'm  not  going  to.  ask  you,  my  dear.  If  I  were 
Lord  of  the  Earth  or  a  millionth  part  of  the  earth  I 
would  laugh  and  take  the  risk.  But  as  things  are  I 
can't  accept  your  generosity.  You  are  the  woman 
I  love  and  shall  always  love.  Good-bye  and  God 
bless  you." 

He  wrung  her  hand  and  marched  down  the  veranda, 
his  head  in  the  air,  looking  a  very  gallant  fellow.  After 
a  few  seconds'  perplexity  she  ran  swiftly  in  pursuit. 

"  Martin  !  "  she  cried. 

He  turned  and  awaited  her  approach. 

"  I  feel  I've  behaved  to  you  like  the  lowest  of 
women.  I'll  make  my  amends  if  you  like.  I'll  marry 
you.     There  !  " 

Martin  stood  racked  with  the  great  temptation.  All 
his  senses  absorbed  her  beauty  and  her  wonder.  At 
length  he  asked  : 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  I've  told  you  all  about  that." 

"  Then  you  don't.  .  .  .  Yes  or  No  ?  It's  a  matter 
of  two  lives." 

"  I've  tried  and  I  will  try  again." 

"  But  Yes  or  No  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

Again  he  took  her  hands  and  kissed  them. 

"  That  ends  it.  If  I  married  you,  my  dear,  I  should 
indeed  be  a  Soldier  of  Fortune,  and  you  would  have 
every  reason  to  despise  me.    Nowit  is  really  good-bye." 

Her  gaze  followed,  him  until  he  disappeared  into  the 
hotel.  Then  she  moved  slowly  to  the  balustrade 
basking  in  the  sunshine,  and  leaning  both  elbows  on  it 
stared  through  a  blur  of  tears  at  the  detested  beauty 
of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FoRTiNBRAS  paced  the  deck  of  the  homeward  bound 

steamer  deep  in  thought.     He  still  wore  the  costume 

of  the  elderly  Cabinet  Minister  ;  but  his  air  was  that  of 

the  Cabinet  Minister  returning  to  a  wrecked  ministry. 

His  broad  shoulders  were  rounded  and  bent ;   his  face 

had  fallen  from  its  benevolent  folds  into  fleshy  haggard- 

ness.     He  felt  old  ;    he  felt  inexpressibly  lonely.     He 

had  not  repeated  the  social  experiment  of  the  voyage 

out.     Save  to  his  Dutch  and  Russian  table  neighbours 

he  had  not  the  heart  to  speak  to  any  one.     A  deep 

melancholy  enwrapped  him.     After  his  philosophical 

communion  with  the  sage  Abu  Mohammed  he  shrank 

from   platitudinous   commerce   with   the   profane.     It 

was  for  the  heart  and  not  for  the  mind  that  he  craved 

companionship.     He  was  travelling  (second  class,  for 

economy's  sake)   back  to  the  old  half-charlatan  life. 

For  all  one's  learning   and  wisdom  one  cannot  easily 

embark  on  a  nev/  career  in  the  middle  fifties.     He  must 

be  Marchand  de  Bonheur  to  the  end. 

He  wondered  whether  he  would  miss  Cecile.     Such 

things  had  happened.     No  matter  how  degraded,  she 

had  been  a  human  thing  to  greet  him  on  his  return 

from  his  preposterous  toil.     Also,  her  needs  had  been 

an  incentive  ;    they  had  sharpened  the  hawk's  vision 

during  the  daily  round  of  cafes  and  restaurants,  and 

quickened  his  pounce  upon  the  di\dned  five-franc  piece. 

Would  he  have  the  nerve,  the  unwearied  patience,  the 

bitter  sense  of  martyrdom,  wherewith  to  carry  on  his 

trade  ?     Again,  in  days  past  his  heavy  heart  had  been 

296 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  297 

uplifted  by  the  love  of  a  child  like  the  wild  flowers 
from  which  Alpine  honey  is  made,  away  in  the  depths 
of  old-world  France.  But  now  he  had  forfeited  her 
love.  She  had  written  to  him,  all  these  weeks  in 
Egypt,  dutifully,  irreproachably  ;  had  given  him  the 
news,  such  as  it  was,  of  Brantome.  She  had  told  him 
of  the  state  of  her  uncle's  health — invariably  robust ; 
of  the  arrivals  and  departures  of  elegant  motorists  ;  of 
the  march  through  the  town,  decorated  for  the  occasion, 
of  a  host  of  petits  soldats,  amid  the  enthusiasm  and 
Marseillaise-singing  of  the  inhabitants  ;  of  the  sudden 
death  by  apoplexy  of  the  good  Madame  Chauvet,  and 
the  sudden  development  of  business  on  the  part  of  her 
daughters,  who  almost  immediately  had  taken  the 
next  shop  and  launched  out  into  iron  wreaths  and 
crosses,  and  artificial  flowers  and  funereal  inscriptions, 
touching  and  pious  ;  of  the  purchases  of  geese  ;  of  the 
infatuation  of  the  elderly  Euphemie  for  the  youthful 
waiter,  erstwhile  plongeur  of  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers  ;  of 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  unimportant  happenings  ; 
finally,  of  the  betrothal  of  Monsieur  Lucien  Viriot  and 
Estelle  Mazabois,  the  daughter  of  the  famous  Mazabois 
who  kept  a  great  drapery  establishment  of  Perigueux 
— "  she  has  the  dowry  of  a  princess  and  the  head  of  a 
rocking-horse,  so  they  are  sure  to  be  happy,"  wTote 
Felise.  The  manner  of  this  last  announcement  shocked 
him,  Felise  had  changed.  She  had  given  him  all  the 
news,  but  her  letters  had  grown  self-conscious  and 
artificial.  To  avoid  the  old,  artless  expressions  of 
endearment  she  rushed  into  sprightly  narrative,  and 
signed  herself  his  "  affectionate  daughter."  He  had 
lost  Felise. 

Yes,  he  felt  old  and  lonely,  unnerved  for  the  struggle. 
Even  Martin  had  forsaken  him. 

He  had  encountered  a  stony-faced,  wrong-headed 
young  man  on  the  terrace  of  Shepheard's  Hotel  the 
noon  before  he  sailed,  and  found  all  his  nostrums  for 
happiness  high-handedly  rejected.     Martin  had  been 


298  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

an  idle  woman's  toy,  a  fiery  toy  as  it  turned  out ;  and 
when  she  burned  her  fingers,  she  had  dropped  him. 
So  much  was  obvious  ;  most  of  it  he  had  foreseen.  He 
had  counted  on  eventual  declaration  and  summary 
dismissal ;  but  he  had  not  reckoned  on  a  prelude  of 
reciprocated  sentiment.  Contrary  to  habit,  Martin 
gave  him  but  a  confused  view  of  his  state  of  mind. 
The  unhappy  lover  would  hear  not  a  word  against  his 
peerless  lady.  On  the  other  hand,  his  love  for  her  had 
blasted  his  existence.  This  appalhng  fact,  though  he 
did  not  proclaim  it  so  heroically,  he  allowed  Fortinbras 
to  apprehend.  He  neither  reproached  him  for  past 
advice  nor  asked  for  new.  To  the  suggestion  that  he 
should  return  to  Brantome  and  accept  Bigourdin's 
offer  he  turned  a  deaf  ear.  He  had  cut  himself 
adrift ;  he  must  go  whithersoever  winds  and  tides 
should  carry  him,  and  they  were  carrying  him  far  from 
Perigord. 

"  In  what  direction  ?  "  Fortinbras  had  inquired. 

"  Thank  Heaven  I  don't  know  myself,"  he  had 
answered.  "  Anyhow,  I  am  going  to  seek  my  fortune. 
I  must  have  money  and  power  so  that  I  can  snap  my 
fingers  at  the  world.  That's  what  I'm  going  to  live 
for." 

And  soon  after  that  declaration  he  had  wrung 
Fortinbras  by  the  hand,  and  hailing  an  arabeah  had 
driven  of!  into  the  unknown.  Fortinbras  had  felt  like 
the  hen  who  sees  her  duckling  brood  sail  away  down 
the  brook.  He  had  lost  control  of  his  disciple ;  he 
mattered  nothing  to  the  young  man  setting  forth  on 
his  wild-goose  chase  after  Fortune.  His  charming 
little  scheme  had  failed.  He  anticipated  the  reproaches 
of  Bigourdin,  the  accusation  in  the  eyes  of  Felise. 
"  Why  did  you  side  with  the  enemy  ?  Why  did  you 
drive  Martin  away  ?  .  .  ." 

He  felt  old  and  lonely,  a  pathetic  failure  ;  so  he 
walked  the  second-class  deck  with  listless  shoulders 
and  bowed  head,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  299 

"  Tiens  !  Monsieur  Fortinbras  !  Who  would  have 
thought  it  ?  "  cried  a  fresh  voice. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  a  dark-eyed  girl,  her  head 
enveloped  in  a  motor-veil,  who  extended  a  friendly 
hand. 

"  Mademoiselle  .  .  ."he  began  uncertainly. 

"  Mais  out !  Eugenie  Dubois.  You  must  remember 
me.     There  was  also  le  grand  Jules — Jules  Massart." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  he  said  courteously,  with  a  wan 
smile. 

"  You  saved  us  both  from  a  pretty  mess." 

"  I  remember  the  saving  ;  but  I  forget  the  mess.  It 
is  my  rule  always  to  forget  such  things." 

She  laughed  gaily,  burst  into  an  account  of  herself. 
She  was  a  modiste  in  the  great  Paris  firm  of  Odille  et 
Compagnie,  which  had  a  branch  at  Cairo.  Now  she 
was  recalled  for  the  Paris  and  London  season. 

"  Et  justement  " — she  plucked  his  sleeve  and  led  him 
to  a  seat — "  I  am  in  a  tangle  of  an  affair  which  keeps 
me  awake  of  nights.  You  fall  upon  me  from  the  skies 
like  an  angel.     Be  good  and  give  me  a  consultation." 

She  fished  out  her  purse  and  extracted  a  twenty-five 
piastre  piece.     He  motioned  her  hand  away. 

"  Mon  enfant,"  said  he,  "  you  are  an  honourable 
little  soul.  But  I  don't  do  business  on  a  hohday. 
Raconte-moi  to7i  affaire." 

But  she  protested.  She  would  not  abuse  his  kind- 
ness. Either  a  consultation  at  the  regulation  price  or 
no  consultation  at  all.     At  last  he  said  : 

"  Eh  hien  I   give  me  your  five  francs." 

She  obeyed.  He  rose.  "  Come,"  said  he,  and  led 
the  way  to  the  stairhead  by  the  saloon  where  was 
fixed  the  collecting-box  in  aid  of  the  Fund  for  Ship- 
wrecked Mariners.  He  sHpped  the  coin  down  the 
slot. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  honour  is  satisfied." 

But  listening  to  her  artless  and  complicated  tale  he 
wondered,  while  a  shiver  ran  over  his  frame,  whether 


300  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

he  would  ever  be  able  again  to  slip  a  five-franc  piece 
into  his  waistcoat  pocket.  He  felt  yet  older  than 
before,  incapable  of  piercing  to  the  root  of  youth's 
perplexities.  He  counselled  with  oracular  vagueness, 
conscious  of  not  having  earned  his  fee.  He  paced  the 
deck  again. 

"  Were  it  not  for  Abu  Mohammed,"  he  said,  "  I 
should  call  it  a  disastrous  journey." 

Meanwhile  Martin,  lonelier  even  than  he,  sat  in  the 
bows  of  a  great  Eastward  bound  steamer,  his  eyes 
opened  to  the  staring  facts  of  life.  No  longer  must  he 
masquerade  as  the  man  of  fashion — never  again  until 
he  had  bought  the  right.  The  remains  of  his  small 
capital  he  must  keep  intact  for  the  day  of  need.  No 
more  the  luxury  of  first-class  travel.  This  voyage  in 
the  steerage  was  but  a  means  of  transit  to  the  new 
lands  where  he  would  win  his  way  to  fortune.  He 
needed  no  advice.  He  had  spiritually  and  morally 
outgrown  his  tutelage.  No  longer,  so  he  told  himself, 
would  he  nourish  his  soul  on  dreams.  It  could  feed  if 
it  liked  on  memories.  The  madness  had  passed.  He 
drew  the  breath  of  an  honest  man.  If  he  had  taken 
Lucilla  at  her  word  and  married  her,  what  would  have 
been  his  existence  ?  Trailing  about  the  idle  world  in 
the  wake  of  a  rich  wife,  dependent  on  her  bounty  even 
for  a  pair  of  shoe-laces  ;  eating  out  his  heart  for  the 
love  she  could  not  give  ;  at  last,  perhaps,  quarrelling 
desperately,  or  else  with  sapped  wiU-power  sunk  in 
sloth  accepting  from  her  an  allowance  on  condition 
that  they  should  live  apart.  He  had  heard  of  such 
marriages  since  he  had  mingled  with  the  wealthy. 
Even  had  she  met  him  with  a  love  as  passionate  as  his 
own,  would  the  happiness  have  lasted  ?  In  his  grim 
mood  he  thought  not.  He  reasoned  himself  into  the 
conviction  that  his  loss  had  been  his  gain.  Far  better 
that  he  should  be  among  these  few  pdbr  folk  who  sat 
down   to   table    in   their   shirt-sleeves     than   that   he 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  301 

should  be  eating  the  fleshpots  of  dishonour  in  the  land 
of  Egypt.  He  himself  dined  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  as  he 
had  done  many  a  time  before  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
Hotel  des  Grottes. 

Yet  he  hungered  for  her.  It  seemed  impossible  that 
he  should  never  see  her  again,  never  again  watch 
the  sweep  of  the  adorable  brown  eyelashes,  the  subtle 
play  of  laughter  around  her  mobile  hps  ;  never  again 
greet  with  delicious  heart-pang  the  sight  of  her  slim 
figure  willowy  like  those  in  the  Primavera.  In  vain  he 
schooled  himself  to  regard  her  as  one  dead.  The 
witchery  of  her  obsessed  him  night  and  day.  He 
learned  what  it  was  to  suffer. 

He  had  taken  his  deck  passage  to  Hong-Kong — why, 
he  could  scarcely  tell.  It  sounded  very  far  away — as 
far  away  from  her  as  practicable.  As  the  sultry  days 
went  on,  he  reahzed  that  he  had  not  reckoned  on  the 
tremendous  distance  of  Hong-Kong.  It  was  past 
Bombay,  Colombo,  Penang,  and  Singapore.  At  such 
places  as  he  could  he  landed,  but  the  glamour  of  the 
East  had  gone.  He  was  a  man  who  had  expended  his 
power  of  wonder  and  delight.  He  looked  on  them 
coldly  as  places  he  might  possibly  exploit  should 
Hong-Kong  prove  barren.  Also  the  period  of  great 
heat  had  begun  and  he  found  danger  in  strolling  about 
the  deadly  streets.  On  shipboard  he  slept  on  deck. 
As  they  neared  Hong-Kong  his  heart  sank.  For  the 
first  time  he  wished  that  Fortinbras  were  with  him. 
Perhaps  he  had  repaid  affection  with  scant  courtesy. 
He  occupied  himself  with  a  long  letter  to  his  friend, 
setting  out  his  case.  He  then  imagined  the  reply. 
"  My  son,"  said  the  mellow,  persuasive  voice,  "  have 
you  not  been  carrying  on  from  thrill  to  thrill  the  Great 
Adventure  begun  last  August,  when  you  threw  off  the 
chains  of  Margett's  ?  Have  you  not  filled  your  brain 
and  your  soul  with  new  and  breathless  sensations  ? 
Have  you  not  tasted  joys  hitherto  unimagined  ?  Have 
you  not  been  admitted  to  the  heart  of  a  great  and 


302  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

loyal  nation  ?  Have  you  not  flaunted  it  in  the  dazzling 
splendour  of  the  great  world  ?  Have  you  not  steeped 
your  being  in  the  gorgeous  colour  of  the  East  ?  Have 
not  your  pulses  throbbed  with  an  immortal  passion  for 
a  woman  of  surpassing  beauty  ?  Have  you  not  known, 
what  is  only  accorded  to  the  select  of  the  sons  of  men, 
a  supreme  moment  of  delirious  joy  when  Time  stood 
still  and  Space  was  not  ?  Have  you  not  lived  intensely 
all  this  wonderful  year  ?  Are  you  the  same  blank- 
minded,  starving-souled,  mild  negation  of  a  man  who 
sat  as  a  butt  for  Corinna's  pleasantries  at  the  Petit 
Cornichon^'  Have  you  not  progressed  immeasurably  ? 
Have  you  not  gained  spiritual  stature,  wisdom  both 
human  and  godlike  ?  And  are  you  not  now,  having 
passed  through  the  fiery  furnace,  not  only  unscathed 
but  tempered,  setting  out  on  the  still  greater  adventure 
— the  conquest  of  the  Ends  of  the  Earth  ?  Less  than 
a  year  ago  what  were  you  but  a  slave  ?  What  are  you 
now  ?     A  free  man." 

So  through  the  ears  of  fancy  ran  the  sonorous 
rhetoric  of  Fortinbras.  Martin  tore  up  his  letter  and 
scattered  the  fragments  on  the  sea.  A  day  or  two 
afterwards  with  a  stout  heart  he  landed  at  Victoria, 
the  capital  of  Hong-Kong. 


A  half-caste  clerk  to  whom  he  had  entrusted  his  card 
returned  from  the  inner  office. 

"  Mr.  Tudsley  will  see  you,  sir." 

Martin  followed  him  into  a  darkened  office,  cooled 
by  an  electric  fan,  where  a  white-clad,  gaunt,  yeUow- 
faced  Englishman  sat  at  a  desk.  The  clerk  closed 
the  door  and  retired.  The  yellow-faced  Englishman 
rose  and  smiled,  after  glancing  at  Martin's  card  on 
the  desk  before  him. 

"  Mr.  Overshaw  ?     What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  You  can  give  me  some  work,"  said  Martin. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't." 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  303 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Martin.  "  I  must  apologize  for 
troubling  you." 

He  was  about  to  withdraw.  Mr,  Tudsley  glanced  at 
him  shrewdly. 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Sit  down.  I  don't  seem  to  place 
you.     Who  are  you  and  where  do  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  That's  my  name,"  said  Martin,  pointing  to  his 
card,  "  and  I  have  just  arrived  from  Europe,  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  from  Egypt." 

"  By  the  Sesostris  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Mr.  Tudsley  took  up  and  scanned  a  typewritten 
sheet  of  paper. 

"  I  don't  see  your  name  on  the  passenger  list." 

"  Possibly  not,"  said  Martin.     "  I  came  steerage." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  Martin,  spruce  in  his  well-cut  grey 
flannels,  looked  anything  but  a  deck  passenger.  "  What 
made  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  Economy,"  said  Martin. 

"  And  why  have  you  come  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  made  a  list  last  night,  at  the  hotel,  of  the  leading 
firms  in  Hong-Kong,  and  yours  was  among  them." 

"  Haven't  you  any  introductions  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  what  induced  you  to  come  to  this  particular 
little  Hell  upon  Earth  ?  " 

"  Chance,"  said  Martin.  "  One  place  is  pretty  much 
the  same  to  me  as  another." 

"  What  kind  of  work  are  you  looking  for  ?  " 

"  Anything.  From  sweeping  the  floor  to  running  a 
business." 

"  Only  coolies  sweep  floors  here,"  said  Mr.  Tudsley, 
tilting  his  chair  and  clasping  his  hands  behind  his  back. 
"And  only  experienced  men  of  business  run  businesses. 
What  business  have  you  run  ?  " 

"  None,"  said  Martin. 

"  Well,  what  business  qualifications  have  you  ?  " 

"  None.  But  I'm  an  educated  man — Cambridge- " 


304  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

"  Yes,  yes,  one  sees  that,"  the  other  interrupted. 
"  There  are  milhons  of  them." 

"  I'm  bilingual,  Enghsh  and  French,  and  my  German 
is  good  enough  for  ordinary  purposes." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  accounts  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Martin. 

"  Can  you  add  up  figures  correctly  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Martin. 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Martin. 

Mr.    Tudsley   handed   him   a   mass   of    typewTitten 
papers  pinned  together.     Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?  " 

Martin  glanced  through  the  document.     "  It  seems 
to  be  a  list  of  commodities." 

"  It's   a   Bill   of   Lading.     First   time   you've   ever 
seen  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Martin. 

"  Have  you  any  capital  ?  " 

"  A  little.     A  few  hundred  pounds." 

"  Then  stick  to  it  Hke  grim  death.     Don't  part  with 
it  here." 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  intention  of  doing  so,"  said 
Martin. 

The  lean,  yellow-faced  man  brought  his  chair  back  ' 
to  normal  perpendicularity  and  swung  it  round — it 
worked  on  a  swivel. 

"  Mr.  Overshaw,"  said  he,  "  pardon  a  perfect 
stranger  giving  you  advice — but  you  seem  to  be  a 
frank,  straight  man.  You've  made  a  mistake  in 
coming  to  Hong-Kong.  It's  a  beast  of  a  climate.  In 
a  few  days'  time  the  rains  will  begin.  Then  it  will  rain 
steadily,  drearily,  hopelessly,  damply,  swelteringly, 
deadlily  day  after  day,  hour  after  hour,  for  four  months. 
That's  one  way  of  looking  at  things.  There's  another. 
I  am  perfectly  sure  there's  not  a  vacancy  for  an 
amateur  clerk  in  the  whole  of  Hong-Kong.  It  we  want 
a  linguist — your  speciality — we  can  get  Germans  by 
the  dozen  who  not  only  know  six  languages  but  who 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  305 

have  been  trained  as  business  experts  from  childhood — 
and  we  can  get  them  for  twopence  halfpenny  a  month." 

Martin,  remembering  the  discussions  at  the  Cafe  de 
rUnivers,  replied : 

"  And  when  the  war  comes  ?  " 

"  What  war  ?  " 

"  Between  England  and  Germany," 

"  My  dear  fellow,  what  in  the  world  are  you  talking 
of  ?  There's  not  going  to  be  any  war.  Besides  " — he 
smiled  indulgently — "  suppose  there  was — what  then  ?  " 

"  First,"  said  Martin,  "  you  would  have  given  the 
enemy  an  intimate  knowledge  of  your  trade,  which,  by 
the  way,  he  is  even  now  reporting  by  every  mail  to  his 
Government  " — he  was  quoting  the  dictum  of  a  highly 
placed  Egyptian  official  whom  he  met  at  a  dinner-party 
in  Cairo — "  and  then  you  would  have  to  fall  back  upon 
Englishmen." 

Mr.  Tudsley  laughed  and  rose,  so  as  to  end  the 
interview. 

"  I'll  take  the  risk  of  that,"  he  said  easily.  "  But 
the  immediate  question  is  :  '  What  are  you  to  do  ?  ' 
Have  you  visited  any  other  firms  ?  " 

"  Several,"  said  Martin. 

"  And  what  have  they  said  ?  " 

"  Much  the  same  as  you,  Mr.  Tudsley,  only  not  so 
kindly  and  courteously." 

"  That's  all  right, ""^  said  Mr.  Tudsley,  shy  at  the 
compliment.  "  I  don't  see  why  Englishmen  meeting 
at  the  other  end  of  nowhere  shouldn't  be  civil  to  each 
other.  But  my  advice  is  :  Clear  out  of  Hong-Kong. 
There's  nothing  doing." 

"  What  about  Shanghai  ?  " 

"  That's  farther  still  from  Europe." 

"  Singapore  ?  " 

"  That's  better — on  the  way  back." 

"  I  must  thank  you,"  said  Martin,  "  for  giving  me 
so  much  of  your  time." 

"  Not  a  bit.     I  am  only  sorry  I  can't  give  you  a  job 

u 


3o6  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

or  put  you  on  to  one.  But  you  see  the  position,  don't 
you? 

Martin  smiled  wryly.  "  I'm  beginning  to  see  it  with 
painful  clearness." 

"  Good-bye  and  good  luck^"  said  Mr.  Tudsley. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Martin. 

Between  then  and  the  date  of  sailing  of  the  next 
homeward  bound  steamer,  Martin  knocked  at  every 
door  in  Hong-Kong.  Nobody  wanted  him.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  do.  There  was  no  place  for  him 
on  the  very  lowest  rung  of  any  ladder  to  fortune. 

He  sailed  to  Singapore. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

When  Martin  landed  at  Marseilles  he  found  the  world 
on  the  brink  of  war. 

He  had  spent  the  early  summer  roaming  about  the 
East,  looking,  as  he  had  looked  at  Hong-Kong,  for 
work  that  might  lead  to  fortune,  and  finding  none. 
A  touch  of  fever  had  caused  a  friendly  doctor  at  Penang 
to  pack  him  off  to  Europe  by  the  first  boat.  It  had 
been  a  will-o'-the-wisp  chase  mainly  in  the  rains, 
when  the  Straits  Settlements  are  not  abodes  of  delight. 
It  is  bad  enough  that  your  boots  should  be  mildewed 
every  morning  ;  but  when  the  mildew  begins  to  attack 
your  bones  it  is  best  to  depart.  Martin  embarked 
philosophically.  He  had  tried  the  East  because  it  was 
nearer  to  his  original  point  of  departure.  Now  he 
would  try  the  West — America  or  Canada.  In  a 
temperate  chmate  he  could  undertake  physical  labour. 
His  muscles  were  solid,  and  save  for  the  touch  of  fever 
of  which  the  sea-air  had  soon  cured  him,  his  health 
was  robust.  He  could  hew  wood,  draw  water,  dig  the 
earth.  In  a  new  country  he  could  not  starve.  At  the 
last  pinch  he  could  fall  back  on  the  profession  he  had 
learned  at  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  Furthermore,  by 
eating  the  bread  and  choosing  the  couch  of  hardship 
he  had  spent  comparatively  little  of  his  capital.  His 
vagabondage  had  hardened  him  physically  and  morally. 
He  knew  the  world.  He  had  mixed  with  all  kinds  and 
conditions  of  men.  Egypt  seemed  a  sensuous  dream 
of  long  ago.  He  deafened  his  heart  to  its  memories. 
It  would  take  ten  years  to  make  anything  of  a  for- 
tune.    If  he  succeeded,  then,  in  ten  years'  time,  he 

307 


3o8  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

would  seek  Lucilla.  In  the  meanwhile  he  would  not 
waste  away  in  despair.  He  faced  the  future  with 
confidence.  While  standing  with  his  humble  fellow- 
passengers  in  the  bows  of  the  vessel  he  felt  his  pulses 
thrill  at  the  first  sight  of  the  blue  islands  of  Marseilles. 
It  was  France,  country  almost  of  his  adoption.  He 
rejoiced  that  he  had  decided  not  to  book  his  ticket  to 
Southampton,  but  to  pass  through  the  beloved  land 
once  again  before  he  sailed  to  another  hemisphere. 
Besides,  his  money  and  most  of  his  personal  effects 
(dispatched  from  Egypt)  were  lying  at  Cook's  ofiice  in 
Paris.  The  practical  therefore  turned  sentiment  into 
an  easy  channel.  He  landed,  carrying  his  bag  in  his 
hand,  bought  a  paper  on  the  quay  from  a  screaming 
urchin,  and  to  his  stupefaction  found  the  world  on  the 
brink  of  war. 

At  Gibraltar  he  had  not  seen  a  newspaper.  None 
had  penetrated  to  the  steerage  and  he  had  not  landed. 
He  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  the  good,  comfortable 
old  earth  was  roUing  its  usual  course.  Now,  at 
Marseilles,  he  became  aware  of  every  one  in  the  blazing 
sunshine  of  the  quays  staring  at  newspapers  held  open 
before  them.  At  the  modest  hotel  hard  by,  where  he 
deposited  his  bag,  he  questioned  the  manager.  Yes, 
did  not  he  know  ?  Austria  had  declared  war  on 
Servia.  Germany  had  rejected  all  proposals  from 
England  for  a  conference.  The  President  of  the 
Republic  had  hurried  from  Russia.  Russia  would  not 
aUow  Servia  to  be  attacked  by  Austria.  France  must 
join  Russia.  It  was  a  coup  prepared  by  Germany. 
"Ca  y  est,  c'est  la  guerre,"  said  he. 

Martin  went  out  into  the  streets  and  found  a  place 
on  the  crowded  terrace  of  one  of  the  cafes  on  the 
Cannebiere.  All  around  him  was  the  talk  of  war.  The 
rich-voiced  Provengaux  do  not  speak  in  whispers. 
There  was  but  one  hope  for  peace,  the  successful 
intervention  of  England  between  Russia  and  Austria. 
But  Germany  would  not  have  it.     War  was  inevitable. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  309 

Martin  bribed  a  chasseur  to  find  him  some  English 
papers,  no  matter  of  what  date.  With  fervent  anxiety 
he  scanned  the  history  of  the  momentous  week.  What 
he  read  confirmed  the  talk.  Whatever  action  England 
might  take,  France  would  be  at  war  in  a  few  days.  He 
paid  for  his  drink  and  walked  up  the  Cannebiere.  He 
saw  no  smiling  faces.  The  shadow  of  war  already 
overspread  the  joyous  town.  A  battahon  of  infantry 
passed  by,  and  people  stood  still  involuntarily  and 
watched  the  soldiers  with  looks  curiously  stern.  And 
Martin  stood  also,  and  remained  standing  long  after 
the  clanging  tramcars  temporarily  held  up  had  blocked 
them  from  his  sight.  And  he  knew  that  he  could  not 
go  to  America. 

In  a  little  spot  in  the  heart  of  France  lived  all  the 
friends  he  had  in  the  world  ;  all  the  brave  souls  he 
had  learned  to  love.  Brantome  appeared  before  him 
as  in  a  revelation,  and  a  consciousness  of  ingratitude 
smote  him  so  that  he  drew  a  gasping  breath.  Not  that 
he  had  forgotten  them.  He  had  kept  up  a  fitful 
correspondence  with  Bigourdin,  who  had  never  hinted 
a  reproach.  But  until  an  hour  or  two  ago  he  had 
been  prepared  to  wipe  Brantome  out  of  his  life,  to  pass 
through  France  without  giving  it  an  hour  of  greeting — 
even  an  ave  atque  vale. 

In  the  past  seven  months  of  mad  folly  and  studied 
poverty,  where  had  he  met  characters  so  strong,  ideals 
so  lofty,  hearts  so  loyal  ?  What  had  he  learned 
among  the  careless,  superficial,  Anglo-American  society 
in  Egypt  comparable  with  that  which  he  had  learned 
in  this  world-forgotten  little  bourgeoisie  in  France  ? 
WTiich  of  them  had  touched  his  nature  below  the 
layer  of  his  vanity  ?  What  ideals  had  he  met  with  in 
the  East  ?  Could  he  so  term  the  complacent  and 
pessimistic  opportunism  of  the  Tudsleys  ;  the  querulous 
grumbling  of  officials ;  the  honest  dullness  of  sea- 
captains  and  seamen  ?  He  judged  superficially,  it  is 
true  ;   for  one  has  to  strike  deep  before  one  can  get  at 


310  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

the  shy  soul  of  a  Briton.  But  a  man  is  but  the  creature 
of  his  impressions.  From  his  own  particular  journey- 
ings  of  seven  months  he  had  returned  almost  bewilder- 
ingly  alone.  East  of  Marseilles  there  dwelt  not  a 
human  being  whose  call,  no  matter  how  faint,  sounded 
in  his  ears.  England,  in  so  far  as  intimate  personal 
England  was  concerned,  had  no  call  for  him  either. 
Nor  had  America,  unknown,  remote,  unfriendly  as 
Greenland. 

Jostled,  he  walked  along  the  busy  thoroughfare,  a 
man  far  away,  treading  the  paths  of  the  spirit.  In 
this  mighty  convulsion  that  threatened  the  earth 
there  was  one  spot  which  summoned  him  with  a  caU 
clear  and  insistent.  His  place  was  there,  in  Perigord, 
to  share  in  its  hopes  and  its  fears,  its  mourning  and  its 

joy- 
He  returned  to  the  hotel  for  his  bag  and  took  the 

first  train  in  the  direction  of  Brantome.  What  he 
would  do  when  arrived  he  had  no  definite  notion.  It 
was  something  beyond  reason  that  drove  him  thither. 
Something  irresistible  ;  more  irresistible  than  the  force 
which  had  impelled  him  to  Egypt.  Then  he  had  hesi- 
tated, weighing  things  for  and  against.  Now  one 
moment  had  decided  him.  It  never  occurred  to  him 
to  question.  Through  the  burning  South  of  France  he 
sped.  As  yet  only  the  shadow  of  war  hung  over  the 
land  ;  the  awful  Word  had  not  yet  gone  forth.  Swarthy 
men  and  women  worked  in  the  baking  vineyards  and 
gathered  in  the  yellow  harvest.  But  here  and  there 
on  flashing  glimpses  of  white  road  troops  marched 
dustily  and  military  wagons  lumbered  along.  And 
in  the  narrow,  wooden-seated  third-class  carriage  on 
the  slow  and  ever-stopping  train,  the  talk  even  of  the 
humblest  was  of  war.  At  every  station  some  of  the 
passengers  left,  some  entered.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
sudden  concentration  homewards.  At  every  station 
were  soldiers  recalled  from  leave  to  their  garrisons. 
These,  during  the  journey,  were  questioned  as  authori- 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  311 

tative  functionaries.  Yes,  for  sure,  there  would  be 
war.  Why,  they  did  not  know,  except  that  the 
sales  hites  of  Germans  were  at  last  going  to  invade 
France. 

Said  one  :  "  I  saw  an  officer  yesterday  in  our  \dllage — 
the  son  of  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Boirelles  who  has  the 
big  chateau  la-has — we  have  known  each  other  from 
childhood — and  he  said  :  '  Rein,  mon  brave,  ga  y  est !  ' 
And  I  said  :  '  What,  mon  lieutenant  ?  '  And  he  said : 
'  V'ld  le  son,  le  son  du  canon.  Fight  like  a  good  son  of 
Boirelles,  or  I'll  cut  off  your  ears.'  And  I  replied 
quasiment  comme  ga  :  '  You  will  not  have  the  oppor- 
tunity, mon  lieutenant,  you  being  in  the  artillery  and 
I  in  the  infantry.'  And  he  laughed  with  good 
heart.  '  Anyhow,'  said  he,  '  if  you  return  to  the 
village,  when  the  war  is  over,  without  the  military 
medal,  and  I  am  alive,  I'll  make  my  mother  do  it  in 
the  courtyard  of  the  chateau  with  her  own  scissors.'  I 
tell  you  this  to  prove  to  you  that  I  know  there  is  going 
to  be  war." 

And  the  women,  holding  their  blue  bundles  on  their 
knees  in  the  crowded  compartment — for  in  democratic 
France  demos  is  not  allowed  the  luxury  of  luggage- 
racks — ^looked  at  the  future  with  anxious  eyes.  What 
would  become  of  them  ?  The  Government  would  take 
their  men.  Their  men  would  be  killed  or  maimed. 
Even  if  the  men  returned  safe  and  sound,  in  the 
meantime  how  would  they  live  ?  A  h,  mon  Dieu ! 
Cette  rosse  de  guerre  !  They  cursed  the  war  as  though 
it  were  a  foul  and  conscious  entity. 

The  interminable  journey,  by  day,  by  night,  with 
tedious  waits  at  great  ghostly  junctions,  at  last  was 
over.  Martin  emerged  from  the  station  of  Brantome 
and  immediately  before  him  stood  the  familiar  ram- 
shackle omnibus  'of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  Old 
Gregoire,  the  driver,  on  beholding  him  staggered  back 
and  almost  fell  over  the  step  of  the  vehicle. 

"  Monsieur  Martin  I     C'est  vous  ?  " 


312  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Recovering,  he  advanced  with  great,  sun-glazed 
hand. 

"  Yes.     It  is  indeed  I,"  laughed  Martin. 

"It  is  everybody  that  will  be  content,"  cried 
Gregoire.  "  How  one  has  talked  of  you,  and  wished 
you  were  back.  And  now  that  this  sacre'e  guerre  is 
coming " 

"  That's  why  I've  come,"  said  Martin.  "  How  are 
monsieur  and  mademoiselle  ?  " 

Both  were  well.  It  was  they  who  would  be  glad  to 
see  Monsieur  Martin.  The  old  fellow,  red-faced,  white- 
haired,  clean-shaven,  with  a  comfortable  gash  of  a 
mouth,  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Mais  v'ld  un  solid e  gaiUard  ?  " 

"  Tu  tro  lives  ?  " 

Why  of  course  Gregoire  found  him  transformed  into 
a  stout  fellow.  When  he  had  arrived  a  year  ago  he 
was  like  a  bit  of  wet  string.  What  a  thing  it  was  to 
travel.  And  yet  he  had  been  in  China  where  people 
ate  rats  and  dogs,  which  could  not  be  nourishing  food. 
In  a  fortnight,  on  the  good  meat  and  foie  gras  of 
Perigord,  he  would  develop  into  a  veritable  giant.  If 
Monsieur  Martin  would  enter.  ...  He  held  the  door 
open.     No  one  else  had  an'ived  by  the  train. 

The  omnibus  jolted  and  swayed  along  the  familiar 
road  through  the  familiar  cobble-paved  streets,  along 
the  familiar  quays,  past  many  a  familiar  face.  The}^ 
all  seemed  to  chant  the  welcome  of  which  the  old 
driver  had  struck  the  key.  Martin  felt  strangely 
happy  and  the  tears  were  very  near  his  eyes.  Monsieur 
Richard,  the  butcher,  catching  sight  of  him,  darted  a 
pace  or  two  down  the  pavement  so  as  to  make  sure, 
and  threw  up  both  hands  in  greeting.  And  as  they 
turned  the  corner  of  the  hill  surmounted  by  the  dear 
grey  tower  of  the  old  Abbey,  Monsieur  le  Cure  saw  him 
and  smiled  and  swept  a  salute  with  his  old  dusty  hat, 
which  Martin  acknowledged  through  the  end  window 
of  the  omnibus. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  313 

They  drew  up  before  the  famihar  door  of  the  old 
white  inn.  Baptiste  was  there,  elderly,  battered,  in 
his  green  baize  apron. 

"  Mais,  mon  Dieu,  c'est  vous  ?  Mais — "  He  wrung 
Martin's  hand.  And,  as  once  before,  on  the  return  of 
Felise,  not  being  able  to  cope  with  his  emotions,  he 
shouted  on  the  threshold  of  the  vestibule  :  "  Monsieur, 
monsieur,  c'est  Monsieur  Martin  qui  arrive  !  " 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  tu  dis  Id  ?  "  cried  a  familiar  voice  from 
the  bureau. 

"  C'est  Monsieur  Martin," 

Martin  entered,  and  in  the  vestibule  encountered 
Bigourdin. 

"  Mais  mon  vieux,"  cried  the  vast  man,  "  c'est  ioi  ? 
C'est  vraiment  toi,  enfin  ?  " 

It  was  the  instinctive,  surprised,  and  joyous  greeting 
of  the  two  servants.  Martin  stood  unstrung.  What 
had  he  done  to  deserve  it  ?  Before  he  could  utter  a 
word,  he  felt  two  colossal  arms  swung  round  him  and 
a  kiss  implanted  on  each  cheek.  Then  Bigourdin  held 
him  out  and  looked  at  him  and,  like  Gregoire,  told  him 
how  solid  he  looked. 

"  Enfin !  You've  come  back.  Tell  me  how  and 
when  and  why.     Tell  me  all." 

Martin's  eyes  were  moist.  "  My  God  !  "  said  he, 
with  a  catch  in  his  voice,  "  you  are  a  good 
fellow." 

"  Not  a  bit,  7non  cher.  We  are  friends,  and  in 
friendship  there  is  something  just  a  httle  bit  sacred. 
But  tell  me,  nom  d'une  pipe  !   all  about  yourself." 

"  I  was  on  my  way,"  said  Martin,  with  his  con- 
scientious honesty,  "  from  Penang  to  New  York.  At 
Marseilles  I  heard  for  the  first  time  of  the  war  in  which 
France  will  be  involved  and  of  which  we  have  so  often 
talked.  And  something,  I  don't  know  what,  called 
me  here — et  me  void !  "    - 

"  C'est  beau.  C'est  hien  beau  de  ta  part,"  said 
Bigourdin  seriously.     "  Let  us  go  and  find  Felise  " 


314  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

Now  when  a  Frenchman  characterizes  a  deed  as 
beau,  it  is,  in  his  opinion,  very  fine  indeed. 

But  before  they  could  move  Euphemie  rushed  from 
her  kitchen  and  all  but  embraced  the  wanderer,  and 
Joseph,  late  plongeur  at  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers  and  now 
waiter  at  the  hotel,  came  shyly  from  the  salle  d  manger, 
and  the  brightness  of  his  eyes  was  only  equalled  by 
the  lustre  of  the  habiliments  that  formerly  had  belonged 
to  Martin.  Bigourdin  dispatched  him  in  quest  of 
Felise.  Soon  she  came,  from  the  fahrique,  looking 
rather  white.  Joseph  had  shot  his  news  at  her.  But 
she  came  up  looking  Martin  straight  in  the  eyes,  her 
hand  extended. 

"  Bon  jour,  Martin.     I  am  glad  to  see  you  again." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  he.  "  More  than  glad.  It's  like 
coming  back  to  one's  own  people." 

She  drew  up  her  little  head  and  asked  with  a  certain 
bravura  :    "  How  is  Lucilla  ?  " 

He  winced  ;  but  he  did  not  show  it.  He  smiled. 
"  I  don't  know.     I  haven't  heard  of  her  since  March." 

"  Neither  have  I,"  she  said.  "  Not  since  January. 
She  seems  to  be  a  bird  of  passage  through  other  people's 
Uves." 

Bigourdin  laughed,  shaking  a  great  forefinger.  "  I 
bet  that  is  not  original.  I  bet  you  are  quoting  your 
old  philosopher  of  a  father  !  " 

She  coloured  and  said  defiantly  :  "  Yes.  I  confess 
it.     It  is  none  the  less  true." 

"  And  how  is  the  good  Fortinbras  ?  "  asked  Martia 
to  turn  a  distressful  conversation. 

"  A  merveille  !  We  are  expecting  him  by  any  train. 
It  is  I  who  am  making  him  come.  To-morrow  I  may 
be  called  out.  France  will  want  more  than  the  Troupes 
Metropolitaines  and  the  Reserves  to  fight  the  Germans. 
They  will  want  the  Territorials,  et  c' est  moi,  I'arme'e 
ierritoriale."  He  thumped  his  chest.  "  It  was  written 
that  I  should  strike  a  blow  for  France  like  my  fathers. 
But  wliile  I  am  striking  the  blow,  who  is  to  look  after 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  315 

my  little  Felise  and  the  Hotel  des  Grottes  ?  It  is  well 
to  be  prepared.  When  the  mobilization  is  ordered 
there  will  be  no  more  trains  for  ci\dlians." 

"  And  what  do  you  feel  about  the  war,  Felise  ?  " 
asked  Martin. 

She  clenched  her  hands  :  "  I  would  give  my  immortal 
soul  to  be  a  man  !  "  she  cried. 

Bigourdin  hugged  her.  "  That  is  a  daughter  for 
France  !  I  am  proud  of  our  little  girl.  On  dirait  une 
Jeanne  d'Arc.  But  where  is  the  Frenchwoman  now 
who  is  not  animated  by  the  spirit  of  La  Pucelle 
d'Orleans  ?  " 

"  In  the  meanwhile,  mon  oiwle,"  said  Fehse,  disen- 
gaging herself  demurely  from  his  embrace,  "  Martin 
looks  exceedingly  dusty  and  hungry,  and  no  one  has 
even  suggested  that  he  should  wash  or  eat  or  have  his 
bag  carried  up  to  his  room." 

Bigourdin  regarded  her  with  admiration.  "  She  is 
wonderful.  She  thinks  of  everything.  Baptiste,  take 
up  Monsieur  Martin's  things  to  the  chambre  d'honneur." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,"  Martin  protested,  "  I  only 
want  my  old  room  in  which  I  have  slept  so  soundly." 

But  Bigourdin  would  have  none  of  it.  He  was  the 
Prodigal  Son.  "  Et  justement !  "  he  cried,  slapping  his 
thigh,  "  we  have  a  good  calf's  head  for  dejeuner.  Yes, 
it's  true."  He  laughed  dehghtedly.  "  The  fatted  calf. 
It  was  fatted  by  our  neighbour  Richard.  C'est  extra- 
ordinaire I  " 

So  Martin  shaved  and  washed  in  the  famous  bath- 
room, and  changed,  and  descended  to  the  salle  d 
manger.  The  only  guests  were  a  few  anxious-faced 
commercial  travellers  at  the  centre  table.  All  but  one 
were  old  acquaintances.  He  went  the  round,  shaking 
hands,  amid  cordial  greetings.  It  was  the  last  time, 
they  said.  To-morrow  they  would  be  mobihzed.  The 
day  after  they  would  exchange  the  sample-box  for  the 
pack  of  the  soldier ;  in  a  week  they  would  have 
the  skin  torn  off  the  soles  of  their  feet ;    and  in  a 


3i6  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

month  they  would  be  blown  to  bits  by  shells.  They 
proclaimed  a  lack  of  the  warrior  spirit.  They  had  a 
horror  of  blood,  even  a  cat's.  It  stirred  up  one's 
stomach.  Mais  enfin,  one  did  not  think  of  such 
unimportant  things  when  France  was  in  peril.  If 
your  house  was  in  danger  of  being  swept  away  by  a 
flood,  there  was  no  sense  in  being  afraid  to  catch  cold 
through  having  your  feet  wet.  Each  in  his  way 
expressed  the  same  calm  fatalistic  patriotism.  They 
had  no  yearning  to  be  killed.  But  if  they  were  killed — 
they  shrugged  their  shoulders.  They  were  France 
and  France  was  they.  No  force  could  dismember 
them  from  France  without  France  or  themselves 
bleeding  to  death.     It  was  very  simple. 

Martin  left  them  and  sat  down  with  Bigourdin  and 
Felise  at  their  table  in  the  corner  by  the  door.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  done  so.  Felise  ate 
little  and  spoke  less.  Now  and  again,  as  he  told  of  his 
mild  adventures  in  the  Far  East,  he  caught  her  great 
dark  eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  he  smiled,  unaccountably 
glad.  But  always  she  shifted  her  glance  and  made  a 
pretence  of  eating  or  drinking.  Once,  when  Bigourdin, 
caUed  by  innkeeper's  business  to  one  of  the  commercial 
travellers,  had  left  the  table,  she  said  : 

"  You  have  changed.  One  would  say  it  was  not  the 
same  man." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  lie  laughed. 

"  You  talk  differently.  There  is  a  different  expres- 
sion on  your  face." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  he. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  sorry,"  said  Felise. 

"  If  you  no  longer  recognize  me,"  said  he — they 
talked  in  French — "  I  must  come  to  you  as  a  stranger." 

She  bit  her  lip  and  flushed.  "  I  did  not  know  what 
I  was  saying.     Perhaps  it  was  impertinent." 

"  How  could  it  be,  Felise  ? "  he  asked,  bending 
across  the  table.  "  But  if  I  have  changed,  is  it  for 
the  better  or  the  worse  ?  " 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  317 

"  Would  you  be  a  waiter  here  again  ?  " 

Martin  looked  for  a  second  into  his  soul. 

"  No,"  said  he. 

"  Voild  I  "  said  FeHse. 

"But  I  couldn't  tell  you  why." 

"  It's  not  necessary,"  said  Felise. 

Bigourdin  joined  them.  The  meal  ended.  Felise 
went  off  to  her  duties.     Bigourdin  said  : 

"  Let  us  go  and  drink  our  coffee  at  the  Cafe  de 
rUnivers.  Everybody  is  there,  at  this  hour,  the  last 
day  or  two.     We  may  learn  some  news." 

They  descended  the  hill  and  walked  along  the  blazing 
quays.  Martin  knew  every  house,  every  stone,  every 
old  woman  who,  pausing  from  beating  her  linen  on  the 
side  of  the  Dronne,  waved  him  a  welcome.  And  men 
stopped  him  and  slapped  his  shoulder  and  shook  him 
by  the  hand. 

"  You  recognize  the  good  heart  of  Perigord/'  said 
Bigourdin. 

Martin  replied,  with  excusable  Gallic  hyperbole : 
"  C'est  mon  pays.  I  find  it  again,  after  having  wandered 
over  the  earth." 

They  turned  into  the  narrow,  cool  Rue  de  Perigueux. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  they  saw  Monsieur 
Foure,  Adjoint  du  Maire,  walking  furiously,  mopping  a 
red  forehead,  soft  straw  hat  in  hand.  He  sped  across 
to  them,  too  excited  to  reaUze  that  Martin  had  gone 
and  returned. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  The  Mayor  has 
received  a  telegram  from  Paris.  The  order  of  mobiliza- 
tion goes  out  to-day." 

"  Bon,"  said  Bigourdin. 

The  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers  was  crowded 
with  the  notables  of  the  town,  who,  in  their  sober  way, 
only  frequented  the  cafe  after  dinner.  The  special 
coterie  had  their  section  apart,  as  at  night.  They 
were  all  assembled — Fenille  of  the  Compagnie  du  Gaz, 
Beuzot,  Professor  of  the  Ecole  Normale,  the  Viriots, 


3i8  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

father  and  son,  Thiebauld,  managing  director  of  the 
quarries,  Benoit  of  the  railway,  Rutillard,  the  great 
chandler  of  corn  and  hay  ;  and  they  did  not  need  the 
Adjoint  du  Maire  to  tell  them  the  news.  The  fresh 
arrivals,  provided  speedily  with  chairs  by  the  waiters, 
were  swallowed  up  in  the  group.  And  Martin  was 
assailed. 

"  Et  maintenant,  I'Angleterre.  Qu'est-ce  qu'elle  va 
faire  ?" 

It  was  the  question  on  all  French  lips  that  day  until 
England  declared  war. 

And  Martin  proclaimed,  as  though  inspired  from 
Whitehall,  that  England  would  fight.  For  the  moment 
his  declaration  satisfied  them.  The  talk  swayed  from 
him  excitedly.  France  at  war,  at  last,  after  forty 
years,  held  their  souls.  They  talked  in  the  air,  as 
men  wiU,  of  numbers,  of  preparations,  of  chances,  of 
the  soHdarity  of  the  nation.  When  there  was  a  little 
pause,  the  square-headed,  white-haired  Monsieur  Viriot 
rose  and  with  a  gesture,  imposed  silence. 

"  This  is  a  moment,"  said  he,  "  for  every  misunder- 
standing between  loyal  French  hearts  to  be  cleared  up. 
We  are  now  brothers  in  the  defence  of  our  beloved 
country.  Mon  brave  ami  Bigourdin,  donne-moi  ta 
main." 

Bigourdin  sprang  up,  in  the  public  street — but 
what  did  that  matter  ? — and  cried  :  "  Mon  vieiix 
Viriot,"  and  the  two  men  embraced  and  kissed  each 
other,  and  every  one,  much  affected,  cried  "  Bravo  ! 
Bravo !  "  And  then  Bigourdin,  reaching  over  the 
marble  tables,  took  young  Lucien  Viriot's  hands  and 
embraced  him  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulders,  and 
cried  :  "  Here  is  a  cuirassier  who  is  going  to  cut  through 
the  Germans  like  bladders  of  lard  !  " 

It  was  a  memorable  reconciliation. 

Fortinbras  arrived  late  at  night,  probably  by  the 
last  regular  train  services  ;  for  on  the  next  day  and 
for  many  days  afterwards    there  was  wild  hurry  and 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  319 

crowds  and  confusion  on  roads  and  railways  all  through 
France. 

Into  the  town  poured  all  the  men  of  the  surrounding 
villages,  and  the  streets  were  filled  wdth  them  and  their 
wives  and  mothers  and  children,  and  strange  officers 
in  motor-cars  whirled  through  the  Rue  de  Perigueux. 
Bands  of  young  men  falling  into  the  well-remembered 
step  marched  along  the  quays  to  the  station  singing 
the  Marseillaise,  and  women  stood  at  their  doorsteps 
blowing  them  kisses  as  they  passed.  And  at  the 
station  the  great  military  trains  adorned  with  branches 
of  trees  and  flowers  steamed  away,  a  massed  line  of 
white  faces  and  waving  arms ;  and  old  men  and 
women,  young  and  old,  waved  handkerchiefs  until  the 
train  disappeared,  and  then  turned  away  weeping 
bitterly,  Martin,  Fortinbras,  and  Bigourdin  went  to 
many  a  train  to  see  off  the  flower  of  the  youth  of  the 
little  town.  Lucien  Viriot  went  gallantly.  "  A  good 
war-horse  suits  me  better  than  an  office  stool,"  he 
laughed.  And  Joseph,  sloughing  for  ever  Martin's 
shiny  black  raiment,  went  off  too  ;  and  the  younger 
waiters  of  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,  and  Beuzot,  the 
young  professor  at  the  Ecole  Normale,  and  the  son  of 
the  Adjoint,  and  le  petit  Maurin,  who  helped  his  mother 
at  her  debit  de  tahac.  Many  a  familiar  face  was 
carried  away  from  Brantome  towards  some  unknown 
battle-line  and  the  thunder  and  the  slaughter — a 
familiar  face  which  Brantome  was  never  to  see  again. 
And  after  a  day  or  two  the  town  seemed  futile,  Hke  a 
ballroom  from  which  the  last  dancers  had  gone. 

Grave  was  the  evening  coterie  at  the  Cafe  de 
rUnivers.  The  rumour  had  gone  through  France  that 
England  more  than  hesitated.  Fortinbras  magnifi- 
cently defended  England's  honour.  He  had  been  very 
quiet  at  home,  tenderly  shy  and  wistful  with  Felise, 
unsuggestive  of  paths  to  happiness  with  Martin ;  his 
attitude  towards  intimate  life  one  of  gentle  melancholy. 
He  had  told  IMartin  that  he  had  retired  from  business 


320  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

as  Marchand  de  Bonheur.  He  had  lost  the  trick  of 
it.  At  Bigourdin's  urgency  he  had  purchased  an 
annuity  which  suihced  his  modest  and  philosophic 
needs.  No  longer  having  the  fierce  incentive  to  gain 
the  hard-earned  five-franc  piece,  no  longer  involved  in 
a  scheme  of  things  harmonious  with  an  irregular 
profession,  he  was  Hke  the  singer  deprived  of  the  gift 
of  song,  the  telepathist  stricken  with  inhibitory  impo- 
tence. For  all  his  odd  learning,  for  all  his  garnered 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  for  all  his  queer 
heroic  struggle,  he  stood  before  his  own  soul  an  irre- 
mediable failure.  So  an  older  and  almost  a  broken 
Fortinbras  had  taken  up  his  quarters  at  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes.  But  stimulated  by  the  talk  of  war,  he 
became  once  more  the  orator  and  the  seer.  He  held  a 
brief  for  England,  and  his  passionate  sincerity  imposed 
itself  on  his  hearers. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  said  he  afterwards.    "  I  was  right." 

But  in  the  meanwhile  Martin,  strung  in  every  fibre 
to  high  pitch  by  what  he  had  heard,  by  what  he  had 
seen,  and  by  what  he  had  felt,  knew  that  just  as  it 
was  ordained  that  he  should  come  to  Brantome  so  it 
was  ordained  that  he  should  not  stay. 

"  You  talk  eloquently  and  wdth  conviction,  mon- 
sieur," said  the  Mayor  to  Fortinbras — there  were  a 
dozen  in  the  familiar  caf^  corner,  tense  and  eager-eyed, 
and  Monsieur  Cazensac,  the  Gascon  proprietor,  stood 
by — "  but  what  proofs  have  you  given  us  of  England's 
co-operation  ?  " 

Martin,  with  a  thrill  through  his  body,  said  in  a  loud 
voice  : 

"  Monsieur  le  Maire,  there  is  not  a  living  Englishman 
with  red  blood  in  his  veins  who  has  any  doubt.  I,  the 
most  obscure  of  Enghshmen,  speak  for  my  country. 
Get  me  accepted  as  a  volunteer,  the  humblest  foot- 
soldier,  and  I  will  fight  for  France.  Take  up  my 
pledge,  Monsieur  le  Maire.  It  is  the  pledge  of  the 
only  Englishman  in  Brantome  on  behalf  of  the  British 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  321 

Empire.  There  are  millions  better  than  I  from  all 
ends  of  the  earth  who  will  be  inspired  by  the  same 
sentiments  of  loyalty.     Get  me  accepted  !  " 

In  English  Martin  conld  never  have  said  it.  Words 
would  have  come  shyly.  But  he  was  among  French- 
men, attuned  to  French  modes  of  expression.  A 
murmur  of  approbation  arose. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Martin,  "  I  offer  France  my  life  as  a 
pledge  for  my  country.  Get  me  accepted,  Monsieur 
le  Maire." 

The  Mayor,  a  lean,  grey-eyed,  bald-headed  man, 
with  a  straggly,  iron-grey  beard,  looked  at  him  intently 
for  a  few  moments. 

"  Cest  bien,"  said  he.  "  I  take  up  your  pledge.  I 
have  to  go  to-morrow  to  Perigueux  to  see  Monsieur  le 
Pr6fet,  who  has  a  certain  friendliness  for  me.  He  has 
influence  with  the  Minist^re  de  la  Guerre.  Accompany 
me  to  Perigueux.  I  undertake  to  see  that  it  is 
arranged." 

"  I  thank  you,  Monsieur  le  Maire,"  said  Martin. 

Then  everybody  talked  at  once,  and  lifted  their 
glasses  to  Martin,  and  Monsieur  Viriot  dispatched 
Cazensac  for  the  sweet  champagne  in  which  nearly  a 
year  ago  they  had  drunk  Lucien's  health ;  and 
Bigourdin  embraced  him  ;  and  when  the  wine  was 
poured  out  there  were  cries  of  "  Vive  V Angleterre !  " 
"  Vive  la  France !  "  "  Vive  Martin  I  "  And  the 
square-headed  old  Monsieur  Viriot  set  the  climax  of 
this  ovation  by  lifting  his  glass  at  arm's  length  and 
proclaiming,  "  Vive  notre  hon  Perigourdin !  " 

Said  Fortinbras,  who  sat  next  to  him  :  "I  would 
give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  be  as  young  as  you,  just  for 
the  next  few  months.     My  God,  you  must  feel  proud  !  " 

Martin's  steady  English  blood  asserted  itself.  "  I 
don't,"  said  he.     "I  feel  a  damned  premature  hero." 

It  is  only  in  the  Legion  Etrangere,  that  fantastic, 
romantic  regiment  of  daredevil  desperadoes  capable  of 


322  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

all  iniquities  and  of  all  heroisms,  that  a  foreigner  can 
enlist  straight  away,  no  questions  asked.  To  be 
incorporated  in  the  regular  army  of  France  is  another 
matter.  Wires  have  to  be  pulled.  They  were  pulled 
in  Martin's  case.  It  was  to  his  credit  that  he  had 
served  two  years — gaining  the  stripes  of  a  corporal — 
in  the  Rifle  Corps  of  the  University  of  Cambridge.  At 
the  psychological  moment  of  pulling,  England  declared 
war  on  Germany.  The  resources  of  the  British  Empire, 
men  and  money  and  ships  and  blood,  were  on  the  side 
of  France.  England  and  France  were  one.  A  second's 
consideration  of  the  request  of  the  Prefet  de  la  Dordogne 
and  a  hurriedly  scrawled  signature  constituted  Martin 
a  potential  member  of  the  French  army. 

It  happened  that,  when  the  notice  of  authorization 
came,  the  first  person  he  ran  across  was  Felise,  by  the 
door  of  the  fabrique.     He  waved  the  paper. 

"  I  am  accepted." 

She  turned  pale  and  put  her  hand  to  her  heart,  but 
she  met  his  eyes  bravely. 

"  When  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  At  once — straight  to  Perigueux  to  enlist." 

"  And  when  will  you  come  back  ?  " 

"  God  knows,"  said  he. 

Then  he  became  aware  of  her  standing  scared,  with 
parted  lips  and  heaving  bosom. 

"  Of  course  I  hope  to  come  back,  some  time  or 
other,  when  the  war's  over.     Naturally — but " 

She  said  quaveringly  :   "  You  may  be  killed." 

"  So  may  millions.     I  take  my  chance." 

She  turned  aside,  clapped  both  hands  to  her  face 
and  broke  into  a  passion  of  weeping.  Instinctively  he 
put  an  arm  around  her.  She  sobbed  on  his  shoulder. 
He  whispered : 

"  Do  you  care  so  much  about  what  happens  to  me  ?  " 

She  tore  herself  away  and  faced  him  with  eyes 
flashing  through  her  tears. 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  a  stick  or  a  stone  ?    I  am  half 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  323 

English,  half  French.  You  are  going  to  fight  for 
England  and  France.  Don't  you  think  women  feel 
these  things  ?  You  are  a  part  of  the  Englishwoman 
and  the  Frenchwoman  that  is  going  out  to  fight,  and 
I  would  hate  you  if  you  didn't  fight,  but  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  killed." 

She  fled.  And  not  again  till  he  left  the  Hotel  des 
Grottes  did  he  see  her  again  alone.  When  with 
Bigourdin  and  Fortinbras  he  was  about  to  enter  the 
old  omnibus  to  take  him  to  the  station,  she  pinned  a 
tricolour  ribbon  on  his  coat,  and  then  saying,  "  Good- 
bye and  God  bless  you,"  looked  him  squarely  in  the 
eyes.  It  was  in  his  heart  to  say,  "  You're  worth  all 
the  Lucillas  in  the  universe."  But  there  were  Bigour- 
din and  Fortinbras  and  Euphemie  and  Baptiste  and 
Gregoire  and  the  chambermaid  and  a  few  straggling 
girls  from  the  fabrique  all  standing  by.     He  said  : 

"  God  bless  you,  FeUse.  I  shall  never  part  with 
your  ribbon  as  long  as  I  live." 

Gregoire  chmbed  to  his  seat.  Bigourdin  closed  the 
door.  The  omnibus  jolted  and  swayed  down  the  road. 
The  elfin  figure  of  Felise  was  suddenly  cut  off  at  the 
turn.     And  that  was  the  last  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes. 

A  week  or  so  later,  Martin  drilling  in  the  hot  barrack 
square  realized  that  just  a  year  had  passed  since  he 
first  set  eyes  on  Brant ome.  A  year  ago  he  had  been 
a  spineless,  aimless  drudge  at  ]\Iargett's  Universal 
College.  Now,  wearing  a  French  uniform,  he  was 
about  to  fight  for  France  and  England  in  the  greatest 
of  all  wars  that  the  world  had  seen.  And  during  those 
twelve  months  through  what  soul-shaking  experiences 
had  he  not  passed  !    Truly  a  wonderful  year. 

"Mais  vous,  num'ro  sept!  Sucre  nom  de  Dieu ! 
Qu'est-ce  que  vous  faites-ld ! "  screamed  the  drill- 
sergeant. 

Whereupon  Martin  abruptly  reahzed  the  intense 
importance  of  the  present  moment 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

The  weary  weeks  passed  by  with  their  alternations  of 
hopes  and  fears.  Martin,  insignificant  speck  of  blue 
and  red,  was  in  the  Argonne.  Sergeant  Bigourdin  of 
the  Armee  Territoriale  was  up  in  the  north.  The 
history  of  their  days  is  the  history  of  the  war  which 
has  yet  to  be  written  ;  the  story  of  their  personal  lives 
is  identical  with  that  of  the  personal  lives  of  the 
milHons  of  men  who  have  looked  and  are  looking 
Death  always  in  the  face,  cut  off  as  it  were  from  their 
own  souls  by  the  curtain  of  war. 

Things  went  drearily  at  the  Hotel  des  Grottes.  But 
little  manhood  remained  at  Brantome.  Women  worked 
in  the  fields  and  drove  the  carts  and  kept  the  shops 
where  so  few  things  were  sold.  Felise  busied  herself 
in  the  fahrique,  her  staff  entirely  composed  of  women. 
Fortinbras  made  a  pretence  of  managing  the  hotel,  to 
which  for  days  together  no  travellers  came.  No  cars 
of  pleasant  motorists  were  unloaded  at  its  door.  Now 
and  then  an  elderly  bagman  in  vain  quest  of  orders 
sat  in  the  solitary  salle  a  manger,  and  Fortinbras 
waited  on  him  with  urbane  melancholy.  Thrown 
intimately  together,  father  and  daughter  grew  nearer 
to  each  other.  They  became  companions,  walking  to- 
gether on  idle  afternoons  and  sitting  on  mild  nights 
on  the  terrace,  with  the  town  twinkling  peacefully 
below  them.  They  talked  of  many  things.  Fortinbras 
drew  from  the  rich  store  of  his  wisdom,  Felise  from  her 
fund  of  practical  knowledge.  There  were  times  when 
she  forgot  the  harrowing  mystery  of  her  mother,  and 
only  conscious  of   a  great    and   yearning  sympathy 

324 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  325 

unlocked  her  heart  and  cried  a  Httle  in  close  and 
comforting  propinquity.  Together  they  read  the  letters 
from  the  trenches,  all  too  short,  all  too  elusive  in  their 
brave  cheeriness.  The  epistles  of  Martin  and  Bigourdin 
were  singularly  alike.  Each  said  much  the  same. 
They  had  not  the  comforts  of  the  Hotel  des  Grottes. 
But  what  would  you  have  ?  War  was  war.  They 
were  in  splendid  health.  They  had  enough  to  eat. 
They  had  had  a  sharp  tussle  with  the  Boches,  and 
many  of  their  men  were  killed.  But  victory  in  the 
end  was  certain.  In  the  meanwhile  they  needed  some 
warm  underclothes  as  the  nights  were  growing  cold ; 
and  would  Felise  enclose  some  chocolate  and  packets 
of  Bastos.     Love  to  everybody,  and  Vive  la  France  ! 

These  letters  Fortinbras  would  take  to  the  Cafe  de 
rUnivers  and  read  to  the  grey-headed  remnant  of  the 
coterie,  each  of  whom  had  a  precisely  similar  letter  to 
read.  The  Adjoint  du  Maire  was  the  first  to  come 
without  a  letter.  He  produced  a  telegram,  which 
was  passed  from  hand  to  hand  in  silence.  He  had 
come  dry-eyed  and  brave,  but  when  the  telegram 
reached  him,  after  completing  its  round,  he  broke 
down. 

"  C'est  stupide !  Forgive  me,  my  friends.  I  am 
proud  to  have  given  my  son  to  my  country.  Mais 
enfin,  he  was  my  son — my  only  son.  For  the  first 
time  I  am  glad  that  his  mother  is  no  longer  living." 
Then  he  raised  his  head  valiantly.  "  Et  toi,  Viriot — 
Lucien,  how  is  he  doing  ?  " 

Then  some  one  heard  of  the  death  of  Beuzot,  the 
young  professor  at  the  Ecole  Normale. 

At  last,  after  a  long  interval  of  silence,  came 
disastrous  news  of  Bigourdin,  lying  seriously,  perhaps 
mortally,  wounded  in  a  hospital  in  a  little  northern 
town.  There  followed  days  of  anguish.  Telegrams 
elicited  the  information  that  he  had  been  shot  through 
the  lung.  FeUse  went  about  her  work  with  a  pinched 
face. 


326  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

In  course  of  time  a  letter  came  from  Madame  Clothilda 
Robineau  at  Chartres. 

My  dear  Niece, — Although  your  conduct  towards 
roe  was  ungrateful,  I  am  actuated  by  the  teachings 
of  Christianity  in  extending  to  you  my  forgiveness, 
now  that  you  are  alone  and  unprotected.  I  hear 
from  a  friend  of  the  Abb^  Duloup,  a  venerable  priest 
who  is  administering  to  the  wounded  the  consolations 
of  religion,  that  your  Uncle  Gaspard  is  condemned 
to  death.  Christian  duty  and  family  sentiment 
therefore  make  it  essential  that  I  should  offer  you  a 
home  beneath  my  roof.  You  left  it  in  a  fit  of  anger 
because  I  spoke  of  your  father  in  terms  of  reproba- 
tion. But  if  you  had  watched  by  the  deathbed  of 
your  mother,  my  poor  sister,  as  I  did,  in  the  terrible 
garret  in  the  Rue  Maugrabine,  you  would  not  judge 
me  so  harshly.  Believe  me,  dear  child,  I  have  at 
heart  your  welfare  both  material  and  spiritual.  If 
you  desire  guidance  as  to  the  conduct  of  the  hotel  I 
shall  be  pleased  to  aid  you  with  my  experience. 
Your  affectionate  aunt, 

Clothilde  Robineau. 

The  frigid  offer,  well  meant  according  to  the  woman's 
pale  lights,  Felise  scarcely  heeded.  Father  or  no 
father,  uncle  or  no  uncle,  protector  or  no  protector, 
she  was  capable  of  conducting  a  score  of  hotels.  The 
last  thing  in  the  world  she  needed  was  the  guidance  of 
her  Aunt  Clothilde.  Save  for  one  phrase  in  the  letter 
she  would  have  written  an  immediate  though  respectful 
refusal,  and  thought  nothing  further  of  the  matter. 
But  that  one  phrase  flashed  through  her  brain.  Her 
mother  had  died  in  the  Rue  Maugrabine.  They  had 
told  her  she  had  died  in  hospital.  Things  hitherto 
bafflingly  dark  to  her  became  clear — on  one  awful, 
tragic  hypothesis.     She  shook  with  the  terror  of  it. 

It  was  the  only  communication  the  postman  had 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  327 

brought  that  late  afternoon.  She  stood  in  the  vestibule 
to  read  it.  Fortinbras,  engaged  in  the  bureau  over 
some  simple  accounts,  looked  up  by  chance  and  saw 
her  staring  at  the  letter  with  great  open  eyes,  her  lips 
apart,  her  bosom  heaving.  He  rose  swiftly,  and 
hurrying  through  the  side  door  came  to  her  side. 

"  My  God  !     Not  bad  news  ?  " 

She  handed  him  the  letter.  He  read,  his  mind  not 
grasping  at  once  that  which  to  her  was  essential. 

"  The  priests  are  exaggerating.  And  as  for  the 
proposal " 

"  The  Rue  Maugrabine,"  said  Fdise. 

He  drew  the  quick  breath  of  sudden  realization,  and 
for  a  long  time  they  stood  silent,  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes.     At  last  she  spoke,  deadly  white  : 

"  That  woman  I  saw — who  opened  the  door  for  me- — 
was  my  mother." 

She  had  pierced  to  the  truth.  No  subterfuge  he 
could  invent  had  power  to  veil  it.  He  made  a  sad 
gesture  of  admission. 

"  Why  did  you  hide  it  from  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  had  a  beautiful  ideal,  my  child,  and  it  would 
have  been  a  crime  to  tear  it  away." 

She  held  herself  very  erect — there  was  steel  in  the 
small  body — and  advanced  a  step  or  so  towards  him, 
her  dark  eyes  fearless. 

"  You  know  what  you  gave  me  to  understand  when 
I  saw  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  said  Fortinbras. 

"  You  also  were  an  ideal." 

He  smiled.  "  You  loved  me  tenderly,  but  I  was  not 
in  your  calendar  of  saints,  my  dear." 

She  mastered  herself,  swallo^ving  a  sob,  but  the  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  now,"  she  said. 

He  laughed  uncertainly.  "  A  poor  old  sinner  of  a 
saint,"  he  said,  and  gathered  her  to  him. 

And  later,   in   the  salon,   before  the  fire,   for  the 


328  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

autumn  was  damp  and  cold,  he  told  her  the  cheerless 
story  of  his  hfe,  concealing  nothing,  putting  the  facts 
before  her  so  that  she  could  judge.  She  sat  on  the 
rug,  her  arm  about  his  knee.  She  felt  very  tired,  as 
though  some  part  of  her  had  bled  to  death.  But  a 
new  wonder  filled  her  heart.  In  a  way  she  had  been 
prepared  for  the  discovery.  In  her  talks  with  her 
uncle  and  with  Martin  she  had  been  keen  to  mark 
a  strange  disingenuousness.  She  had  accused  them  of 
conspiracy.  They  were  concealing  something  ;  what 
she  knew  not ;  but  a  cloud  had  rested  on  her  mother's 
memory.  If,  on  that  disastrous  evening,  the  frowsy 
woman  of  the  Rue  Maugrabine  had  revealed  herself  as 
her  mother,  her  soul  would  have  received  a  shock  from 
which  recovery  might  have  been  difficult.  Now  the 
shock  had  not  only  been  mitigated  by  months  of 
torturing  doubt,  but  was  compensated  by  the  thrill 
of  her  father's  sacrifice. 

When  he  had  ended,  she  turned  and  wept  and  knelt 
before  him,  crying  for  forgiveness,  calling  him  all 
manner  of  foolish  names. 

He  said,  stroking  her  dark  hair  :  "  I  am  only  a  poor 
old  bankrupt  Marchand  de  Bonheur." 

"  You  will  be  Marchand  de  Bonheur  to  the  end,"  she 
said,  and  with  total  want  of  logical  relevance  she 
added  :  "See  what  happiness  you  have  brought  me 
to-night." 

"  At  any  rate,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  we  have  found 
each  other  at  last." 

She  went  to  bed  and  lay  awake  till  dawn  looking  at 
a  new  world  of  wrongdoing,  suffering,  and  heroism. 
Who  was  she,  humble  httle  girl,  living  her  sequestered 
life,  to  judge  men  by  the  superficialities  of  their  known 
actions?  She  had  judged  her  father  almost  to  the 
catastrophe  of  love.  She  had  judged  Martin  bitterly. 
What  did  she  know  of  the  riot  in  his  soul  ?  Now  he  was 
offering  his  Ufe  for  a  splendid  ideal.  She  felt  humble 
beside  her  conception  of  him.    And  her  Uncle  Gaspard, 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  329 

great,  tender,  adored,  was  lying  far,  far  away  in  the 
north,  with  a  bullet  through  his  body.  She  prayed 
her  valiant  little  soul  out  for  the  two  of  them.  And 
the  next  morning  she  arose  and  went  to  her  work 
brave  and  clear-c^'ed,  with  a  new  hope  in  God  based 
upon  a  new  faith  in  man. 

A  day  or  two  later  she  received  a  wild  letter  from 
Corinna  Hastings.  Corinna's  letters  were  as  frequent 
as  blackberries  in  March.  Felise  knitted  her  brows 
over  it  for  a  long  time.  Then  she  took  it  to  her 
father. 

"  The  sense,"  she  said,  "  must  lie  in  the  scribble  I 
can't  make  out." 

Fortinbras  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  when,  not 
without  difficulty,  he  had  deciphered  it,  he  took  off 
the  spectacles  and  smiled  the  benevolent  smile  of  the 
Marchand  de  Bonheur. 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  my  dear,"  said  he.  "  I  will 
answer  Corinna." 

In  the  tiny  town  of  Wendlebury,  in  the  noisy  bosom 
of  her  family,  Corinna  was  eating  her  heart  out.  During 
the  latter  days  of  June  she  had  returned  to  the  fold, 
an  impecunious  failure.  As  a  matter  of  theory  she  had 
upheld  the  principles  of  woman  suffrage.  As  a  matter 
of  practice,  in  the  effort  to  obtain  it,  she  loathed  it 
with  bitter  hatred.  She  lacked  the  inspiration  of  its 
overwhelming  importance  in  sublunary  affairs.  She 
was  willing  enough  to  do  ordinary  work  in  its  interests, 
at  a  living  wage,  even  to  the  odious  extent  of  wearing 
an  anemic  tricolour  and  selling  newspapers  in  the 
streets.  But  when  her  duties  involved  incendiarism, 
imprisonment,  and  hunger-striking,  Corinna  revolted. 
She  had  neither  the  conviction  nor  the  courage.  Miss 
Banditch  reviled  her  for  a  recreant,  a  snake  in  the 
grass,  and  a  spineless  doll,  and  left  the  flat,  forswearing 
her  acquaintance  for  ever.  Headquarters  signified 
disapproval  of  her  pusillanimity.     Driven  to  despera- 


330  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

tion  she  signified  her  disapproval  of  headquarters  in 
unmeasured  terms.  The  end  came,  and  prospective 
starvation  drove  her  home  to  Wendlebury.  When  the 
war  broke  out,  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  young 
maidenhood  of  the  town,  she  yearned  to  do  something 
to  help  the  British  Empire.  Her  sister  Clara,  to  satisfy 
this  laudable  craving,  promptly  married  a  subaltern, 
and,  when  he  was  ordered  to  the  Front,  went  to  hve 
with  his  people.  The  next  youngest  sister,  Evelyn, 
anxious  for  Red  Cross  work,  found  herself  subsidized 
by  an  aunt  notoriously  inimical  to  Corinna.  Corinna 
therefore  had  to  throw  in  her  lot  with  Margaret  and 
Winnie,  chits  of  fifteen  and  thirteen — the  intervening 
boys  having  flown  from  the  nest.  What  was  a  penniless 
and,  in  practical  matters,  a  feckless  young  woman  to 
do  ?  She  knitted  socks  and  mufflers,  and  went  round 
the  town  collecting  money  for  Belgian  refugees.  So 
did  a  score  of  tabbies,  objects  of  Corinna's  scornful 
raillery,  who  district-visited  the  poor  to  exasperation. 
She  demanded  work  more  glorious,  more  heroic  ;  but 
lack  of  funds  tied  her  to  detested  knitting-needles.  As 
the  Vicar's  daughter  she  was  compelled  to  go  to 
church  and  Hsten  to  her  father's  sermons  on  the  war  ; 
compared  with  which  infliction,  she  tartly  informed 
her  mother,  forcible  feeding  was  a  gay  amusement. 

Once  or  twice  she  had  a  post  card  from  Martin  in  the 
Argonne.  She  cursed  herself,  her  destiny,  and  her 
sex.  If  only  she  was  a  man  she  would  at  least  have 
gone  forth  with  a  gun  on  her  shoulder.  But  she  was 
a  woman  ;  the  most  helpless  thing  in  women  God  ever 
made.  Even  her  mother,  whom  she  had  rated  low  on 
account  of  intellectual  shortcomings,  she  began  to 
envy.  At  any  rate  she  had  generously  performed  her 
woman's  duty.  She  had  brought  forth  ten  children, 
five  men  children,  two  of  whom  had  rushed  to  take 
up  arms  in  defence  of  their  country.  Martin's  last 
post  card  had  told  her  of  Bigourdin  being  called  away 
to  fight.     In  her  enforced  isolation  from  the  great 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  331 

events  of  the  great  world  she  became  acutely  conscious 
that  in  all  the  great  world  only  one  individual  had 
ever  found  a  use  for  her.  A  flash  of  such  knowledge 
either  scorches  or  illuminates  the  soul. 

Then  early  in  November  she  received  a  misspelt 
letter  laboriously  written  in  hard  pencil  on  thin  glazed 
paper.  It  was  addressed  from  a  hospital  in  the  North 
of  France. 

Mademoiselle  Corinne, — I  have  done  my  best 
to  strike  a  blow  for  my  beloved  country.  It  was 
written  that  I  should  do  so,  and  it  was  written 
perhaps  that  I  should  give  my  life  for  her.  I  am 
dictating  these  words  to  my  bedside  neighbour  who 
is  wounded  in  the  knee.  For  my  part,  a  German 
bullet  has  penetrated  my  lung,  and  the  doctors  say 
I  may  not  live.  But  while  I  still  can  speak,  I  am 
anxious  to  tell  you  that  on  the  battlefield  your 
image  has  always  been  before  my  eyes,  and  that  I 
always  have  in  my  heart  a  love  for  you  tender  and 
devoted.  Should  I  live,  mademoiselle,  I  pray  you 
to  forget  this  letter,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  cause  you 
pain.  But  should  I  die,  let  me  now  have  the  con- 
solation of  believing  that  I  shall  have  a  place  in 
your  thoughts  as  one  who  has  died,  not  unworthily 
or  unwillingly,  in  a  noble  cause. 

Gaspard-Marie  Bigourdin. 

Corinna  sat  for  a  long  time,  frozen  to  her  soul, 
looking  out  of  her  bedroom  window  at  the  hopeless 
autumn  drizzle,  and  the  sodden  leaves  on  the  paths  of 
the  Vicarage  garden.  Then,  with  quivering  lips,  she 
sat  down  at  the  rickety  little  desk  that  had  been  hers 
since  childhood  and  wrote  to  Bigourdin.  She  sealed  the 
letter  and  went  out  in  the  rain  and  dropped  it  in  the 
nearest  pillar-box.  When  she  reached  her  room  again, 
the  realization  of  the  inadequacy  of  her  words  smote 
her.  She  threw  herself  on  her  bed  and  sobbed.  After 
which  she  wrote  her  wild  letter  to  Felise. 


332  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

For  the  next  few  days  a  chastened  Corinna  went 
about  the  Vicarage.  An  unusual  gentleness  manifested 
itself  in  her  demeanour,  and  at  last  emboldened  Mrs. 
Hastings,  good,  kind  soul,  to  take  the  unprecedented 
step  of  inquiring  into  her  wayward  and  sharp-tongued 
daughter's  private  affairs. 

"  I'm  afraid,  dearie,  that  letter  you  had  from  France 
contained  bad  news." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  said  Corinna,  with  a  sigh. 

They  were  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Hastings 
laid  aside  her  knitting,  rose  slowly — she  was  a  portly 
woman — and  went  across  to  Corinna  and  put  her  arm 
about  her  shoulders. 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  what  it  was,  dearie  ?  "  she 
whispered. 

Corinna  melted  to  the  voice.  It  awakened  memories 
of  unutterable  comfort  of  childish  years.  She  sur- 
rendered to  the  embrace. 

"  Yes,  mother.  The  truest  man  I  have  ever  known 
— a  Frenchman — is  dying  over  there.  He  asked  me 
to  marry  him  a  year  ago.  And  I  was  a  fool,  mother. 
Oh  !   an  awful  fool !  " 

And  half  an  hour  later  she  said  tearfully  :  "I've 
been  a  fool  in  so  many  ways.  I've  misjudged  you  so, 
mother.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  would 
understand." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hastings,  stroking  her  hair, 
"  to  bring  fourteen  children  into  the  world  and  keep 
ten  of  them  going  on  small  means,  to  say  nothing  of 
looking  after  a  husband,  isn't  a  bad  education." 

The  next  day  came  a  telegram. 

Re  letter  Felise.     If  you  want  to  find  yourself  at 
last  go  straight  to  Bigourdin.     Fortinbras. 

The  message  was  a  lash.  She  had  not  contemplated 
the  possibility  of  going  to  France.  In  the  sleepless 
nights  she  had  ached  to  be  with  him.  But  how  ?  In 
Tierra  del  Fuego  he  would  be  equally  inaccessible. 


V. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  333 

"  Go  straight  to  him."  The  words  were  very  simple. 
Of  course  she  would  go.  Why  had  she  waited  for 
Fortinbras  to  point  out  her  duty  ? 

Then  came  the  humiliating  knowledge  of  impotence. 
She  looked  in  her  purse  and  counted  out  her  fortune 
of  thirteen  shilHngs  and  sevenpence  halfpenny.  A 
very  humble  Corinna  showed  letter  and  telegram  to 
her  mother. 

"  The  war  seems  to  have  turned  everything  upside 
down,"  said  the  latter.  "  You  ought  to  go,  dear.  It's 
a  sacred  duty." 

"  But  how  can  I  ?  I  have  no  money.  I  can't  ask 
father." 

"  Come  upstairs,"  said  Mrs.  Hastings. 

She  led  the  way  to  her  bedroom,  and  from  a  locked 
drawer  took  an  old-fashioned  japanned  dispatch-box, 
which  she  opened. 

"  All  my  married  life,"  she  said,  "  I  have  managed 
to  keep  something  against  a  rainy  day.  Take  what 
you  want,  dear." 

Thus  came  the  overthrowal  of  all  Corinna's  scheme 
of  values.  She  went  to  France,  a  woman  with  a  warm 
and  throbbing  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  reached  the  Httle  French 
town,  and  it  was  with  infinitely  more  difficulty  that 
she  overcame  military  obstacles  and  penetrated  into 
the  poor  little  whitewashed  school  that  did  duty  as  a 
hospital.  It  was  a  great  bare  room  with  a  double  row 
of  iron  bedsteads,  a  gangway  between  them.  Here 
and  there  an  ominous  screen  shut  off  a  bed,  A  few 
bandaged  men,  half  dressed,  were  sitting  up  smoking 
and  playing  cards.  An  odour  of  disinfectant  caught 
her  by  the  throat.  A  human  form  lying  by  the  door, 
with  but  little  face  visible,  was  moaning  piteously. 
She  shrank  on  the  threshold,  aghast  at  this  abode  of 
mangled  men.  The  young  aide-major  escorting  her 
pointed  up  the  ward. 

"  You  will  find  him  there,  mademoiselle.  Number 
seventeen." 

"  How  is  he  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  day  before  yesterday  he  nearly  went."  He 
snapped  his  finger  and  thumb.  "  A  haemorrhage  which 
we  stopped.  But  the  old  French  stock  is  solid  as  oak, 
mademoiselle.  A  hole  or  two  doesn't  matter.  He  is 
going  along  pretty  well." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  said  Corinna. 

A  nurse  with  red-cross  badge  met  them.  "  Ah,  it  is 
the  lady  for  Sergeant  Bigourdin.  He  has  been  expect- 
ing you  ever  since  your  letter." 

His  eyes  were  all  of  him  that  she  recognized  at 
first.  His  great  hearty  face  had  grown  hollow,  and 
the  lower  part  was  concealed  by  a  thick  black  beard. 
She  remembered  having  heard  of  les  poihts,  the  hairy 

334 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  335 

ones,  as  the  elderly  Territorial  troops,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  were  called  in  France.  But  his  kind,  dark 
eyes  were  full  of  gladness.  The  nurse  set  a  stool  for 
Corinna  by  the  bedside.  On  her  left  lay  another  black- 
bearded  man  who  looked  at  her  wistfully.  He  had 
been  Bigourdin's  amanuensis. 

"  This  angel  of  tyranny  forbids  me  to  move  my 
arms,"  whispered  Bigourdin  apologetically.  The  httle 
whimsical  phrase  struck  the  note  of  the  man's  uncon- 
querable spirit.  Corinna  smiled  through  tears.  The 
nurse  said  :  "  Talk  to  him,  and  don't  let  him  talk  to 
you.     You  can  only  have  ten  minutes."     She  retired. 

"  Cela  vous  fait  beaucoup  souffrir,  mon  pauvre  ami  ?  " 
said  Corinna. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Not  now  that  you  are  here. 
It  is  wonderful  of  you  to  come.  You  have  a  heart  of 
gold.  And  it  is  that  little  tahsman,  ce  petit  cceur  d'or, 
that  is  going  to  make  me  well.  You  cannot  imagine — 
it  is  hke  a  fairy  tale  to  see  you  here." 

Instinctively  Corinna  put  out  her  hand  and  touched 
his  hps.  She  had  never  done  so  feminine  and  tender 
a  thing  to  a  man.  She  let  her  fingers  remain,  while  he 
kissed  them.     She  flushed  and  smiled. 

"  You  mustn't  talk.  It  is  for  me  who  have  sound 
hmgs.  I  have  come  because  I  have  been  a  little 
imbecile,  and  only  at  the  eleventh  hour  I  have  repented 
of  my  folly.  If  I  had  been  sensible  a  year  ago,  this 
would  not  have  happened." 

He  turned  happy  eyes  on  her ;  but  he  said,  with  his 
Frenchman's  clear  logic : 

"  All  my  love  and  all  the  happiness  that  might  have 
been  would  not  have  altered  the  destinies  of  Europe. 
I  should  have  been  brought  here,  all  the  same,  with  a 
ridiculous  Httle  hole  through  my  great  body." 

Corinna  admitted  the  truth  of  his  statement.  "  But," 
said  she,  "  I  might  have  been  of  some  comfort  to  you." 

His  eyebrows  expressed  the  shrug  of  which  his 
maimed  frame  was  incapable.    "  It  is  all  for  the  best. 


336  ,    THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

If  I  had  left  you  at  Brant ome,  my  heart  would  have 
been  torn  in  two.  I  might  have  been  cautious  to  the 
detriment  of  France.  As  it  was,  I  didn't  care  much 
what  happened  to  me.  And  now  they  have  awarded 
me  the  medaille  militaire  ;  and  you  are  here,  to  make, 
as  Baudelaire  says,  *  7na  joie  et  ma  sante.'  What  more 
can  a  man  desire  ?  " 

Now  all  this  bravery  was  spoken  in  a  voice  so  weak 
that  the  woman  in  Corinna  was  stirred  to  its  depths. 
She  bent  over  him  and  whispered — for  she  knew  that 
the  man  with  the  wistful  gaze  in  the  next  bed  was 
listening : 

"  C'esi  vrai  que  tu  m'aimes  toujours  ?  " 

She  saw  her  question  answered  by  the  quick  illumi- 
nation of  his  eyes,  and  she  went  on  quickly  :  "  And  I, 
I  love  you  too,  and  I  will  give  you  all  my  poor  life 
for  what  it  is  worth.  Oh !  "  she  cried,  "  I  can't 
imagine  what  you  can  see  in  me.  Beside  you  I  feel  so 
small,  of  so  little  account.  I  can  do  nothing — nothing 
but  love  you." 

"  That's  everything  in  the  world,"  said  Bigourdin. 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said : 
"  I  should  like  to  meet  the  Boche  who  fired  that  rifle." 

"  So  should  I,"  she  cried  fiercely.  "  I  should  like 
to  tear  him  limb  from  hmb." 

"  I  shouldn't,"  said  Bigourdin.  "  I  should  Uke  to 
decorate  him  with  a  pair  of  wings  and  a  little  bow  and 
arrow.  ..." 

The  nurse  came  up.  "  You  must  go  now,  made- 
moiselle. The  patient  is  becoming  too  excited.  It  is 
not  your  fault.  Nothing  but  a  bolster  across  their 
mouths  will  prevent  these  Perigourdins  from  talking." 

A  tiny  bedroom  in  a  house  over  a  grocer's  shop  was 
all  the  accommodation  that  she  had  been  able  to 
secure,  as  the  town  was  full  of  troops  billeted  on  the 
inhabitants.  As  it  was,  that  bedroom  had  been  given 
up  to  her  by  a  young  officer  who  took  pity  on  her 
distress.     She  felt  her  presence  impertinent  in  this 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  337 

stern  atmosphere  of  war.  After  seeing  Bigourdin,  she 
wandered  for  a  while  about  the  rainy  streets,  and  then 
retired  to  her  chilly  and  comfortless  room,  where  she 
ate  her  meal  of  sardines  and  sausage.  The  next  day 
she  presented  herself  at  the  hospital,  and  saw  the 
aide-major. 

"  Can  you  give  me  some  work  to  do  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  able  to  nurse.  But  I  could 
fetch  and  carry  and  do  odd  jobs." 

But  it  was  a  French  hospital,  and  the  r^glemeni 
made  no  provision  for  affording  prepossessing  young 
Englishwomen  romantic  employment. 

Of  course,  said  the  aide-major,  if  mademoiselle  was 
bent  upon  it,  she  could  write  an  application  which 
would  be  forwarded  to  the  proper  quarter.  But  it 
would  have  to  pass  through  the  bureaux — and  she, 
who  knew  France  so  well,  was  aware  what  the  passing 
through  the  bureaux  meant.  Unless  she  had  the  ear 
of  high  personages,  it  would  take  weeks  and  perhaps 
months. 

"  And  in  the  meantime,"  said  Corinna,  "  my  grand 
ami,  Number  17  down  there,  will  have  got  well  and 
departed  from  the  hospital." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "  you  have  already  saved 
the  life  of  one  gallant  Frenchman.  Don't  you  think 
that  should  give  you  a  sentiment  of  duty  accom- 
plished ?  " 

She  blushed.  He  was  kind.  For  he  was  young  and 
she  was  pretty. 

"  I  can  let  you  see  your  gros  heureux  to-day,"  said 
he.  "It  is  a  favour.  It  is  against  the  reglemenf.  If 
the  major  hears  of  it  there  will  be  trouble.  By  the 
grace  of  God  he  has  a  bilious  attack  which  confines 
him  to  his  quarters.  But,  bien  entendu,  it  is  for  this 
time  only." 

She  thanked  him,  and  again  found  herself  by  Bigour- 
din's  bedside.  The  moment  of  her  first  sight  of  him 
was   the   happiest  in   her  life.     She   had   wrought   a 


338  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

miracle.  He  was  a  different  man,  inspired  with  the 
supreme  will  to  live.  The  young  doctor  had  spoken 
truly.  A  spasm  of  joy  shook  her.  At  last  she  had 
been  of  some  use  in  the  world.  .  .  .  She  saw  too  the 
Bigourdin  whom  she  had  known.  His  great  black 
beard  had  vanished.  One  of  the  camarades  with  two 
disposable  arms  had  hunted  through  the  kits  of  the 
patients  for  a  razor  and  had  shaved  him. 

"  They  tell  me  I  am  getting  on  magnificently,"  said 
he.  "  This  morning  there  is  no  longer  any  danger.  In 
a  few  months  I  shall  be  as  solid  as  ever  I  was.  It  is 
happiness  that  has  cured  me." 

They  talked.  She  told  him  of  her  conversation  with 
the  aide-major.  He  reflected  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said : 

"  Do  you  wish  to  please  me  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  here  for  ?  "  asked  Corinna. 

"  You  are  here  to  spoil  me.  Anyhow — if  you  wish 
to  please  me,  go  to  Brantome  and  await  me.  To 
know  that  you  are  there,  chez  moi,  will  give  me  the 
courage  of  a  thousand  lions,  and  you  will  be  able  to 
console  my  poor  Fehse,  who  every  night  is  praying  for 
Martin  by  the  side  of  her  little  white  bed." 

And  so  it  was  arranged.  After  two  days'  extra- 
ordinary travel,  advancing  from  point  to  point  by  any 
train  that  happened  to  run,  shunted  on  sidings  for 
interminable  periods  in  order  to  allow  the  unimpeded 
progress  of  military  trains,  waiting  weary  hours  at 
night  in  cold,  desolate  stations,  hungry  and  broken, 
but  her  heart  aglow  with  a  new  and  wonderful 
happiness,  she  reached  Brantome, 

She  threw  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  an  astonished, 
but  ever  urbane  elderly  gentleman  in  the  vestibule  of 
the  Hotel  des  Grottes  and  kissed  him. 

"  He's  getting  well,"  she  cried  a  little  hysterically. 
"  He  sent  me  here  to  wait  for  him.  I'm  so  happy,  and 
I'm  just  about  dead." 

"  But  yet  there's  that  spark  of  Hfe  in  you,  my  dear 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  339 

Corinna,"  said  Fortinbras,  "  which,  according  to  the 
saying,  distinctly  justifies  hope.  FeUse  and  I  will  see 
to  it  that  you  live." 

It  was  winter  before  Bigourdin  was  well  enough  to 
return.  By  that  time  Corinna  had  settled  down  to 
her  new  life,  wherein  she  found  the  making  of  foie  gras 
an  enticing  mystery.  Also,  in  a  town  where  every 
woman  had  her  man,  husband,  brother,  son,  or  lover 
either  in  hourly  peril  of  death,  or  dead  or  wounded, 
there  was  infinite  scope  for  help  and  consolation.  And 
when  a  woman  said  :  "  He'las  !  Mon  paiivre  homme. 
II  est  hlessS  Id-bas,"  she  could  reply  with  a  new,  thrilling 
sympathy  and  a  poignant  throb  of  the  heart :  "  And 
m.y  man  too,"  For  like  all  the  other  women  there 
she  had  son  homme.  Her  man !  Corinna  tasted  the 
fierce  joy  of  being  elemental. 

There  was  much  distress  in  the  little  town.  The 
municipality  did  its  best.  In  many  cases  the  wives 
valiantly  carried  on  the  husband's  business.  But  in 
the  row  of  cave- dwellings  where  the  quarrymen  lived 
no  muscular  arms  hewed  the  week's  wages  from  the 
rocks.  Boucabeille,  Martin's  Bacchanalian  friend,  had 
purged  all  his  offences  in  an  heroic  battle,  and  was 
lying  in  an  unknown  grave.  Corinna,  learning  how 
Martin  had  carried  the  child  home  on  his  shoulders, 
brought  her  to  the  hotel  and  cared  for  her,  and  obtained 
work  for  the  mother  in  the  fabrique.  Never  before  had 
Corinna  had  days  so  full ;  never  before  had  she 
awakened  in  the  morning  with  love  in  her  heart. 
Felise,  gro\vn  gentler  and  happier  since  the  canoniza- 
tion of  her  father,  gave  her  unstinted  affection. 

And  then  Bigourdin  arrived,  nominally  on  sick 
leave,  but  with  private  intimation  that  his  active 
services  would  be  required  no  longer.  This  gave  a 
touch  of  sadness  to  his  otherwise  joyous  home- 
coming. 

"  I  have  not  killed  half  enough  Boches,"  said  he. 


340  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

A   few  days   after  his  return  came   a  letter  from 
Martin.     And  it  was  written  from  a  hospital. 

My  dearest  Felise, — I  am  well  and  sound  and  in 
perfect  health.  But  a  bullet  got  me  in  the  left  arm 
while  we  were  attacking  a  German  trench,  and  a 
spent  bit  of  shrapnel  caught  me  on  the  head  and 
stunned  me.  When  I  recovered  I  was  midway 
between  the  trenches  in  the  zone  of  fire,  and  I  had 
to  lie  still  between  the  dead  bodies  of  two  of  our 
brave  soldiers.  I  thought  much,  my  dear,  while  I 
was  lying  there  expecting  every  minute  a  bullet  to 
finish  me.  And  some  of  what  I  thought  I  will  tell 
you,  when  I  see  you,  for  I  shall  see  you  very  soon. 
After  some  thirty-six  hours  I  was  collected  and 
brought  to  the  field  hospital,  where  I  was  patched 
up,  and  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  so  sent  to  the  base. 
I  lay  on  straw  during  the  journey  in  a  row  of  other 
wounded.  France  has  the  defects  of  her  qualities. 
Her  soil  is  so  fertile  that  her  stalks  of  straw  are  like 
young  oak  saplings.  When  I  arrived  I  had  such  a 
temperature  and  was  so  silly  with  pain  that  I  d.n't 
very  well  remember  what  happened.  W^hen  I  got 
sensible  they  told  me  that  gangrene  had  set  in,  and 
that  they  had  chopped  off  my  arm  above  the  elbow. 
I  always  thought  I  was  an  incomplete  human  being, 
dear,  but  I  have  never  been  so  idiotically  incomplete 
as  I  am  now.  Although  I  am  getting  along  splen- 
didly, I  want  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  with  the  fingers 
that  aren't  there.  I  turn  to  pick  up  something,  and 
there's  nothing  to  pick  it  up  with.  A  week  before 
I  was  v/ounded  I  had  a  finger-nail  torn  off,  and  it 
still  hurts  me,  somewhere  in  space,  about  a  foot 
away  from  what  is  me.  You  would  laugh  if  you 
knew  what  a  nuisance  it  is.  ...  I  make  no  excuses 
for  asking  you  to  receive  me  at  Brantome  ;  all  that 
is  dear  to  me  in  the  world  is  there — and  what  other 
spot  in  the  wide  universe  have  I  to  fly  to  ? 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  341 

"  But  sacre  mm  d'ltne  pipe !  "  cried  Bigourdin — for 
Felise,  after  private  and  tearful  perusal  of  the  letter, 
was  reading  such  parts  of  it  aloud  as  were  essential  for 
family  information.  "  What  is  the  imbecile  talking 
of  ?     Where  else,  indeed,  should  he  go  ?  " 

FeHse  continued.  Martin,  as  yet  unaware  of  Bigour- 
din's  return,  sent  him  messages. 

When  you  write,  will  you  tell  him  I  have  given 
to  France  as  much  of  m^^self  as  I've  been  allowed 
to.  Half  an  arm  isn't  much.  Mais  c'est  dejd  qtielqtie 
chose. 

"  Quelque  chose !  "  cried  Bigourdin.  "  But  it  is  a 
sacred  sacrifice.  If  I  could  get  hold  of  that  little  bit 
of  courageous  arm  I  would  give  it  to  Monsieur  le  Cure 
and  bid  him  nail  it  up  as  an  object  venerable  and 
heroic  in  his  parish  church.  Ah !  le  pauvre  gaygon,  le 
pauvre  gar^on,"  said  he.  "  Mais  voyez-vous,  it  is  the 
English  character  that  comes  out  in  his  letter.  I  have 
seen  many  English  up  there  in  the  north.  No  longer 
can  we  Frenchmen  talk  of  le  phlcgmc  hritanniqiie.  The 
astounding  revelation  is  the  unconquerable  Enghsh 
gaiety.  Ja^nais  de  longs  visages.  If  a  decapitated 
English  head  could  speak,  it  would  launch  you  a 
whimsical  smile  and  say  :  "  What  annoys  me  is  that 
I  can't  inhale  a  cigarette."  And  here  our  good  Martin 
makes  a  joke  about  the  straw  in  the  ambulance  train. 
Mon  Dieu!  I  know  what  it  is,  but  it  has  never 
occurred  to  me  to  jest  about  it." 

In  the  course  of  time  Martin  returned  to  Brantome. 
The  railway  system  of  the  country  had  been  fairly 
adjusted  in  the  parts  of  France  that  were  distant  from 
scenes  of  military  operations.  Bigourdin  borrowed 
Monsieur  le  Maire's  big  limousine,  which  had  not  been 
commandeered,  for  the  Mayor  was  on  many  committees 
in  the  Department  and  had  to  fly  about  from  place 


342  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

to  place — and  with  Corinna  and  Felise  and  Fortinbras 
he  met  Martin's  train  at  Perigueux.  As  it  steamed  in 
a  hand  waved  from  a  window  below  a  familiar  face. 
They  rushed  to  the  carriage  steps  and  in  a  moment 
he  was  among  them — in  a  woollen  cap  and  incredibly 
torn  blue-grey  greatcoat  and  ragged  red  trousers,  the 
unfilled  arm  of  the  coat  dangling  down  idly.  But  it 
was  a  bronzed,  clear-eyed  man  who  met  them,  for  all 
his  war  battering. 

Bigourdin  welcomed  him  first,  in  his  exuberant  way, 
called  him  "  My  brave  "  and  "  My  little  hero,"  and  hugged 
him.  Fortinbras  gripped  his  hand,  after  the  English 
manner.  Corinna,  happy  and  smiling  through  glistening 
eyes,  he  kissed  without  more  ado.  And  then  he  was 
free  to  greet  Felise,  v/ho  had  remained  a  pace  or  two  in 
the  background.  Her  great  dark  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him  questioningly.  She  put  out  a  hand  and  touched 
the  empty  sleeve.  She  read  in  his  face  what  she  had 
never  read  before.  His  one  poor  arm  stretched  in  an 
instinctive  curve.  With  a  little  sobbing  cry  she  threw 
herself  blindly  into  his  embrace. 

The  tremendous  issues  of  existence  with  which  for 
five  months  he  had  been  grappling  had  wiped  out  from 
his  consciousness,  almost  from  his  memory,  the  first 
enthralling  kiss  of  another  woman.  Caked  with  mud, 
deafened  by  the  roar  of  shells,  sleeping  in  the  earth  of 
his  trench,  an  intimate  of  blood  and  death  day  after 
day,  he  had  learned  that  Lucilla  had  been  but  an  ignis 
fatuus,  leading  him  astray  from  the  essential  meaning 
of  his  Ufe.  He  knew,  as  he  lay  wounded  beneath  the 
hell  of  machine-gun  fire  between  the  trenches,  that 
there  was  only  one  sweet  steadfast  soul  in  the  world 
who  called  him  to  the  accompUshment  of  his  being. 

When,  in  the  abandonment  of  her  joy  and  grief,  his 
lips  met  the  soft  quivering  mouth  of  F61ise,  care,  hke  a 
garment,  fell  from  him.  He  whispered  :  "  You  have 
a  CTeat  heart.  I've  not  deserved  this.  But  you're  the 
oruy  thing  that  matters  to  me  in  the  world," 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  343 

Felise  was  content.  She  knew  that  the  war  had 
swept  his  soul  clean  of  false  gods.  Out  of  that  furnace 
nothing  but  Truth  could  come. 

And  so  Martin  returned  for  ever  to  the  land  of  his 
adoption,  which  on  the  morrow  was  to  take  him  after 
its  generous  and  expansive  way  as  a  hero  to  its  bosom. 
The  Enghshman  who  had  given  a  limb  for  Perigord 
was  to  be  held  in  high  honour  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

He  was  a  man  now  who  had  passed  through  most 
human  experiences.  A  man  of  fine  honour,  of  courage 
tested  in  a  thousand  ways,  of  stiffened  ^\ill,  of  high 
ideals.  The  hfe  that  lay  before  him  was  far  dearer 
than  any  other  he  could  have  chosen.  For  it  matters 
not  so  much  the  Hfe  one  leads  as  the  knowledge  of  the 
perfect  way  to  Hve  it.  And  that  knowledge,  based  on 
wisdom,  had  Martin  achieved.  He  knew  that  if  the 
glittering  prizes  of  the  earth  are  locked  away  behind 
golden  bars  opening  but  to  golden  keys,  there  are 
others  far  more  precious  lying  to  the  hand  of  him  who 
will  but  seek  them  in  the  folds  of  the  famihar  hills. 

The  five  sat  down  to  dinner  that  evening  in  the 
empty  salle  d  manger  \  for  not  a  guest,  even  the  most 
decrepit  commercial  traveller,  was  staying  at  the  hotel. 
Yet  never  had  they  met  at  a  happier  meal.  F61ise 
cut  up  Martin's  food  as  though  it  had  been  blessed 
bread.  In  the  middle  of  it  Fortinbras  poured  out  half 
a  glass  of  wine. 

"  My  children,"  said  he,  "I  am  going  to  break 
through  the  habit  of  years.  This  old  wine  of  Burgundy 
is  too  generous  to  betray  me  on  an  occasion  so  beautiful 
and  so  solemn.     I  drink  to  your  happiness." 

"  But  to  whom  do  Martin  and  I  owe  our  happiness  ?  " 
cried  Corinna,  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek  and  a  glistening 
in  her  blue  eyes.  "  It  is  to  you — from  first  to  last  to 
you,  Marchand  de  Bonhcur  !  " 

"  My  God !    Yes,"  said  Martin,  extending  his  one 
arm  to  Fortinbras. 
The  ex-Dealer  in  Happiness  regarded  them  both 


344  THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR 

benevolently.  "  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  said  he, 
"  I  think  I  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  my  late  pro- 
fession. Like  the  artist  who  has  toiled  and  struggled, 
I  can,  without  immodesty,  recognize  my  masterpiece. 
It  was  my  original  conception  that  Martin  and  Corinna, 
crude  but  honest  souls,  should  find  an  incentive  to  the 
working  out  of  their  destiny  by  falling  in  love.  There- 
fore I  sent  them  out  together.  .  That  they  should  have 
an  honourable  asylum,  I  sent  them  to  my  own  kin. 
When  I  found  they  wouldn't  fall  in  love  at  all,  I 
imagined  the  present  felicitous  combination.  I  have 
been  aided  by  the  little  accident  of  a  European  War. 
But  what  matter  ?  The  gods  willed  it,  the  gods  were 
on  my  side.  Out  of  evil  there  inscrutably  and  divinely 
cometh  good.  INIy  children,  my  heart  is  very  full  of  the 
consolation  that,  at  the  end  of  many  years  that  the  locust 
hath  eaten,  I  have  perhaps  justified  my  existence." 

"  Mon  pcre,"  cried  Felise,  "  all  my  life  long  your 
existence  has  had  the  justification  of  heroic  sacrifice." 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  if  I  hadn't  met  adversity  with 
a  brave  face,  I  should  not  have  been  a  man — still  less 
a  philosopher.  And  now  that  my  duty  here  is  over,  if 
I  don't  go  back  to  Paris  and  find  some  means  of  helping 
in  the  great  conflict,  I  shall  be  unworthy  of  the  name 
of  Englishman.  So  as  soon  as  I  see  you  safely  and 
exquisitely  married,  I  shall  leave  you.  I  shall,  how- 
ever, come  and  visit  you  from  time  to  time.  But 
when  I  die  " —  he  paused,  and  fishing  out  a  stump  of 
pencil  scribbled  on  the  back  of  the  menu  card — 
"  when  I  die,  bury  me  in  Paris  on  the  south  side  of 
the  Seine,  and  put  tliis  inscription  on  my  tombstone. 
One  little  vanity  is  accorded  by  the  gods  to  every 
human  being." 

He  threw  the  card  on  the  table.     On  it  was  written  : 

Ci-git 

Fortinhras 

Marchand  de  Bonheur. 


THE  WONDERFUL  YEAR  345 

When  the  meal  was  over  they  went  up  to  the  prim 
and  plushily  furnished  salon,  where  a  wood  fire  was 
burning  gaily.  Bigourdin  brought  up  a  cobwebbed 
bottle  of  the  Old  Brandy  of  the  Brigadier  and  uncorked 
it  reverently, 

""We  are  going  to  drink  to  France,"  said  he. 

He  produced  from  the  cupboard  whose  doors  were 
veiled  with  green  pleated  silk  half  a  dozen  of  the  great 
glass  goblets,  and  into  each  he  poured  a  little  of  the 
golden  liquid,  which,  as  he  had  once  said,  contained 
the  soul  of  the  Grande  Armee. 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  said  Martin.  "  You're  making  a 
mistake.     There  are  only  five  of  us." 

"  I  am  making  no  mistake  at  all,"  said  Bigourdin. 
"  The  sixth  glass  is  for  the  shade  of  the  brave  old 
Brigadier.  If  he  is  not  here  now  among  us  to  honour 
the  toast,  I  am  no  Christian  man." 


THE  END 


NOVEIvS   BY   WILLIAM   J.  LOCKE 

FAR-AWAY  STORIES 

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"  These  storieSj  long  and  short,  achieve  the  nearly  impossible. 
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JAFFERY 


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has  he  ever  written  anything  in  which  there  glowed  more  brightly 
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without  altering  its  character." — Standard. 

"  '  Jaffery  '  will  strengthen  the  hold  Mr.  Locke  has  on  his  great 
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'  Jaliery  '  does  not  '  boom  '  even  as  Adrian  BoHero's  stolen  novel 
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THE   FORTUNATE  YOUTH 

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"  Art  of  narrative,  perpetual  play  of  pretty  wit,  sparkling  epigram 
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"  Delightful  romance.     The  characters,  severely  tested  as  they 

•^re  in   many  intensely   dramatic  situations,   prove  human.  The 

author's   charity,    like   his   humour,    never   fails   us." — Pall  Mall 
Gazette. 

JOHN    LANE,   THE    BODLEY    HEAD,    VIGO   STREET,    W, 


NOVELS  BY   WILLIAM    J.  LOCKE 

STELLA  MARIS 

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"  '  Stella  Maris  '  is  a  work  of  irresistible  appeal." — Daily  Tehgraph^ 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  the  triumphant  success  of  this  very 
interesting  piece  of  work." — Daily  News. 

THE  JOYOUS  ADVENTURES 
OF  ARISTIDE  PUJOL 

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"  At  all  times  he  is  the  best  of  company,  and  he  will  rank  among 
the  best  and  most  charming  of  Mr.  Locke's  creations.  '  The  Joyous 
Adventures  '  will  add  greatly  to  the  author's  fame,  for  rare  indeed 
is  literary  work  of  such  colour  and  vivacity." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  It  is  a  grand  book  this.  A  jolly,  delightful  book,  for  though 
a  tear  gleams  here  and  there,  the  great  characteristic  of  the  book 
is  laughter.  A  most  audacious  book,  a  most  enchanting  book, 
and  such  a  perfectly  fascinating  hero." — Clarion. 

THE  GLORY  OF 
CLEMENTINA  WING 

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"  Mr.  Locke  is  a  master  of  many  spells." — Times. 

"  Mr.  Locke  may  feel  assured  that  both  Clementina  and  Quixtus 
will  become  favourites  with  his  readers,  and  that  neither  the  rough 
idiosyncrasies  of  Clementina,  nor  the  amiable  fatuity  of  Dr.  Quixtus, 
will  readily  pass  into  the  limbo  of  forgotten  things." — Daily  Telegraph 

JOHN    LANE,   THE    BODLEY    HEAD,    VIGO    STREET,    W. 


NOVELS  BY    WILLIAM   J.  LOCKE 

THE  MORALS  OF 
MARCUS  ORDEYNE 

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"  The  literary  charm  of  Mr.  Locke's  new  story  is  exquisite.  It  is 
compounded  of  intellect,  bright  wit,  lambent  imagination,  and  a 
certain  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  touch.  There  is  a  passage  of 
rare  beauty  and  true  philosophy  at  the  end.  The  story  is  a  very 
pretty  and  very  delightful  romance." — Scotsman. 

"  The  story  if  unconventional,  it  is  interesting  and  well  written." 
— Saturday  Review. 

"  Brightly  written  and  clever.  .  .  .  Mr.  Locke's  novel  is  very 
pleasant  reading." — Daily  Telegraph. 

THE  BELOVED 
VAGABOND 

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"  It  would  not  be  surprising  if  '  The  Beloved  Vagabond  '  became 
the  favourite  novel  of  the  season.  .  .  .  This  fantastic  and  enlivening 
book." — Morning  Post. 

"  Certainly  it  is  the  most  briUiant  piece  of  work  Mr.  Locke  has 
done." — Truth. 

"  Mr.  Locke,  who  has  a  happy  gift  for  characterization,  and  who 
wTites  in  the  easy  cultured  style  of  the  scholar,  has  been  quite 
successful  in  delineating  his  hero." — Daily   Telegraph. 

"Mr.  Locke's  novel  abounds  in  dehghtful  dialogue."— G/oJi?. 

JOHN    LANE,   THE    BODLEY    HEAD,    VIGO    STREET,    VV. 


NOVEIvS   BY  WILLIAM   J.  LOCKE 

IDOLS 

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"  A  brilliantly  written  and  eminently  readable  book." — Daily 
Telegraph. 

"  One  of  the  very  few  distinguished  novels  of  this  present  book 
season." — Daily  Mail. 

"  The  Baron  strongly  recommends  Mr.  Wilham  J.  Locke's  '  Idols  ' 
to  all  novel  readers.  It  is  well  written  ;  no  time  is  wasted  in 
superfluous  descriptions  ;  there  is  no  fine  writing  for  fine  writing's 
sake  ;  but  the  story,  the  general  probability  of  which  is  not  to 
any  appreciable  extent  discounted  by  two  improbabilities,  will 
absorb  the  reader.  At  all  events,  it  is  a  novel  that,  once  taken 
up,  cannot  willingly  be  put  down  until  finished." — The  Baron 
DE  B.-W.  in  Punch. 

"  A  decidedly  powerful  story  with  a  most  ingenious  plot." — 
Spectator. 

DERELICTS 

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"  Mr.  Locke  tells  his  story  in  a  very  true,  very  moving,  and 
very  noble  book.  If  any  one  can  read  the  last  chapter  with  dry 
eyes  we  shall  be  surprised.  '  Derelicts '  is  an  impressive  and 
important  book.  Yvonne  is  a  character  that  any  artist  might 
be  proud  of." — Daily  Chronicle. 

"  An  exceptionally  fine  novel  .  .  .  vigorous  and  manly.  The 
two  chief  characters  are  masterpieces  of  careful  and  sympathetic 
delineation.  The  book  abounds  in  original  and  often  dramatic 
situations,  in  the  handhng  of  which  the  author  leaves  positively 
no  loophole  for  adverse  criticism.  We  shall  look  forward  with 
pleasurable  anticipation  to  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Locke's  next 
book."— Pa«  Mall  Gazettt. 

"  A  story  excellently  told.  Mr.  Locke  writes  Interestingly,  and 
the  characters  are  all  very  human  and  real.  There  is  something 
very  charming  about  the  sanity  of  his  standpoints.  Mr.  Locke 
is  to  be  thanked  for  a  very  interesting  and  clever  book." — Wesiminster 
Gazetis. 

WHERE  LOVE  IS 

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"  I  do  not  often  praise  a  book  with  this  exultant  gusto,  but 
it  gave  me  so  much  spiritual  stimulus  and  moral  pleasure  that 
I  feel  bound  to  snatch  the  additional  delight  of  commending  it  to 
those  readers  who  long  for  a  novel  that  is  a  piece  of  literature  as 
well  as  a  piece  of  hfe." — Mr.  James  Douglas  in  the  Star. 

JOHN    LANE,    THE    BODLEY    HEAD,    VIGO    STREET,    W. 


NOVEIyS   BY   WILLIAM   J.  LOCKE 

THE  USURPER 

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"  Arresting  is  the  right  word  to  apply  to  Mr.  Locke's  book. 
Beyond  all  the  excellence  of  the  characterization  and  the  interest 
the  story  evokes,  which  makes  it  one  of  the  most  attractive  novels 
of  the  year,  there  is  true  insight  in  dealing  with  several  of  the 
problems  of  humanity,  the  stimulus  to  thought  which  is  alike  rare 
and  unforgettable." — Daily  Telegraph. 

"  Character  and  plot  are  most  ingeniously  wrought,  and  the 
conclusion  when  it  comes  is  fully  satisfying." — Spectator. 

"  An  impressive  romance." — Times. 

"  An  ingenious  and  readable  story." — Daily  News. 

"  The  book  should  be  read,  since  it  is  full  of  good  things." — 
Standard. 

"It  is  agreeably  interesting,  and  will  hav«  many  appreciative 
readers.     The  characterization  is  adequate  throughout." — Globe. 

THE  WHITE  DOVE 

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"  It  is  an  interesting  story.  The  characters  are  strongly  conceived 
and  vividly  presented,  and  the  dramatic  moments  are  powerfully 
reahzed." — Morning  Post. 

"  The  plot-intervention  Is  extremely  briUiant,  not  only  in  detail, 
but  in  the  interweaving  of  incidents."— Si!ar. 

"  Mr.  William  J.  Locke's  '  The  White  Dove  '  has  a  very  excep- 
tional claim  to  attention." — Graphic. 

"  An  interesting  story  full  of  dramatic  scenes." — Times. 

"  Mr.  Locke  has  a  happy  gift  for  characterization,  and  writes 
in  the  easy,  cultured  style  of  the  scholar." — Daily  Telegraph. 


AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA 

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"  A  well-written  novel,  whose  characters  seem  '  hewn  from  life  ' 
and  act  as  men  and  women  really  act.  Mr.  Locke's  book  deserves 
to  be  read,  and  may  be  recommended." — Vanity  Fair. 


JOHN    LANE,  THE    BODLEY    HEAD,    VIGO    STREET,     W. 


NOVEIvS    BY  WIIvIylAM    J.  IvOCKB 

SIMON  THE  JESTER    - 

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"  You  will  not  put  down  the  book  until  you  have  read  the  last 
page.  The  story  is  not  the  main  part  of  Mr.  Locke's  book.  It  is 
the  style,  the  quality  of  the  writing,  the  atmosphere  of  the  novel, 
the  easy  pervasive  charm  .  .  .  which  makes  us  feel  once  more 
the  stirring  pulses  and  eager  blood  of  deathless  romance." — W.  L. 
Courtney  in  the  Daily  Telegraph. 

"  We  thoroughly  recommend  '  Simon  the  Jester,'  and  can  promise 
an  enjoyable  time  in  the  company  of  the  miscellaneous  assortment 
of  people  from  all  ranks  and  classes  who  dance  through  its  pages 
to  Mr.  Locke's  many  tunes." — Moi'ning  Post. 

"  It  is  much  the  best  of  his  sentimental  stories,  without  forgetting 
for  an  instant  the  illiterate  Carlotta  and  the  gushing  Paragot ; 
the  writing  of  it  has  a  style,  a  grace,  that  owes  something  to  the 
immortal  author  of '  Sylvestre  Bonnard  '  and  '  M.  Bergeret  k  Paris.'  " 
— Standard. 

A  STUDY  IN  SHADOWS 

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"  The  character-drawing  is  distinctly  good.  All  the  personages 
stand  out  well  defined  with  strongly  marked  individuahties." — 
Aihencsmn. 

THE  DEMAGOGUE 
AND  LADY  PHAYRE 

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JOHN    LANE,  THE    BODLEY    HEAD,    VIGO    STREET.    W. 


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